


Waters of March

by geoviki



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama, Jossed, M/M, Muteness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-11-02
Updated: 2003-11-02
Packaged: 2017-11-06 03:48:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geoviki/pseuds/geoviki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Voldemort's final victim resides with the other spell-damaged wizards in St. Mungo's Hospital.  Harry suffers survivor's guilt and finds an unusual beta.  Cream-colored knee-high leather boots make a brief appearance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waters of March

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2003.

**Chapter 1 - Resisting the Wind**

> _É madeira de vento, tombo da ribanceira  
>  É o mistério profundo, é o queira ou não queira_
> 
> _(It is wood that resists the wind, the falls of the riverbank,  
>  It's the profound mystery, it's wanting or not wanting.)  
> _

Harry Potter didn’t know what to expect when he decided to visit Draco Malfoy in St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Part of the reason was that he purposely tried not to think of Malfoy residing on the fourth floor ward. He had only one memory of that ward from a single accidental visit, and it wasn’t good. Gilderoy Lockhart was there, for one, recovering from self-inflicted memory loss that he’d actually intended for Harry. Broderick Bode had been there, too – he’d been hexed trying to steal a prophecy about Harry while under an Imperius Curse. He’d been murdered soon after that in his bed in that fourth floor ward. Neville Longbottom’s parents had been there for over fifteen years, driven insane by the Cruciatus curse during the Dark Lord’s first power grab. St. Mungo’s did a steady business in Voldemort’s victims.

Now Voldemort had a new victim on the fourth floor. As much as he could, Harry had refused to think about the last time he saw Malfoy. During the chaotic hours of what was now being called the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry had stumbled into a room where he’d found Malfoy, unresponsive and completely drenched with blood. That is to say, his physical body was there; by the time Harry found him, his mind was already gone. As it turned out, the blood was actually Professor Snape’s. 

The week after the attack, Tonks was given the job of telling Harry what the Order thought had happened in that room. She’d conjured up two Butterbeers from somewhere and slipped one over to Harry. He clutched the icy cold bottle and eased open the top.

"Draco was working for the Order, Harry," she told him. He noticed she called him Draco, as if they’d been friends. "He didn’t want to be like his father."

"Can’t say I blame him," Harry replied, pretending to be uninterested, although he had been totally unaware of Draco’s activities. "But I never expected that he’d come join the angels. I mean, he had everyone’s vote locked up for head of the Future Death Eaters Club."

"Well, it wasn’t an easy decision, you know."

"More than your typical teen rebellion, then? More than wanting to piss off Dad?" Harry didn’t know why he was being so flippant, except maybe that he knew he could with Tonks. That, and he was still trying to bury the memory of that room.

"Draco knew what he was doing. He knew it meant giving up his family, his friends – everything he lived by, up to then. Surprising, really, how he was so dead set on it once he made up his mind. Kind of like you, Harry," she added, not unkindly. 

He didn’t answer that, instead taking a noisy gulp from his Butterbeer.

"I know I couldn’t have done it. I don’t know anyone who gave up what he did so young. Most of us in the Order suffered losses, but by and large things were taken away by force. Not so much _given up_ , you know what I’m saying?"

Harry did.

"He could have stayed out of it, you know. He didn’t have to join us, but he wanted to." She didn’t add, "And look where that got him," but Harry knew they were both thinking it.

"No one at school knew anything about it. I mean, he was always such a prat. Nothing changed." He knew it was a thin argument.

"Well, nothing _could_ change, could it?" Tonks answered wryly. "He couldn’t exactly spill that he’d switched sides."

"I guess not."

"C’mon, Harry, what did you expect him to do? Write letters home? ‘Dear Mum and Dad, could you let me know the names and addresses of your Death Eater friends so I can send them all Christmas cards? Oh, and guess what? Harry Potter and I are great chums now, hope you don’t mind.’"

He smiled at the outlandish image. "Okay, I get it."

Tonks echoed his smile with a short-lived one of her own. "He had a rough time of it, Harry. He cut himself off from Voldemort’s side, but he couldn’t openly ally himself with us, either. But he never once said he regretted it."

He glanced at her briefly before returning his attention to his Butterbeer. "So when did this happen?" he asked. What he really meant was,why didn’t I notice it?

"Beginning of this term. Something happened to him at home this summer, but he would never tell us what. He came to Severus the day after he got back to Hogwarts."

"Snape trusted him." 

"Yeah, Snape trusted him, and Dumbledore trusted Snape," she replied. "Turned out they weren’t wrong either, Harry." She looked at Harry closely. "Draco’s father assumed he controlled his son’s future. Well, it’s a common mistake parents make, isn’t it? Lucius didn’t bother much with him after he came to Hogwarts. But Draco…well, he needs attention…"

Harry snorted, almost choking on his drink. "You think?"

"Yeah, he even admits it himself. It was our good fortune that Severus was there when Draco needed someone to fill that need. Severus became a mentor to him and kept him on the side of us angels. So yeah, Harry, maybe it was teen rebellion, but the stakes were pretty high. Draco could stay loyal to his father and become a Death Eater – or rebel and be a traitor."

He didn’t answer. His fingers scratched at the label on his Butterbeer, shredding the edges. He knew they were coming to the subject of what had happened in that room.

"Severus knew that if Voldemort ever got past the wards around Hogwarts, he’d probably be the first one killed. I mean, Voldemort was sure to make an example of him, wasn’t he, for double-crossing him. The Dark Lord was always ridiculously fond of the grand display." She ran her hand roughly through her hair. "Well, you know that. Look at all the fuss he went through to get hold of you at the Triwizard Tournament." She paused and looked at Harry, expecting him to say something at last, but he had nothing to add. He was occupied in reducing his Butterbeer label to tattered shreds.

"Anyway, even knowing Voldemort would be after him, Severus was more afraid that Draco had been discovered. Instead of protecting himself, he protected Draco." She was rushing through this part, he noticed. "Voldemort found them both soon enough, though. He killed Snape."

That was simply put, Harry thought. Three easy words. He. Killed. Snape. But that didn’t begin to describe what had in fact happened. He hadn’t witnessed the actual killing; he’d only seen the aftermath. But he knew more accurate words that described what Voldemort had done to Severus Snape. He tortured Snape. He made a warning of Snape. He guaranteed that everyone who saw or merely heard about it knew what happened to people who deserted him by flaunting just what he could do to Snape. He had made – what did Tonks call it – a _grand display._ A grand, horrifying, savage, spiteful, brutal, bloody display.

But in the end, you might say that Snape won, because somehow he managed to save Malfoy’s life. Regrettably, it hadn’t been enough to save Malfoy.

No one really knew what Voldemort had done to Malfoy. Tonks was trying to tell him anyway.

"Dementors, we think. No one’s sure. We don’t know why Voldemort didn’t just kill him, too. He was...." Her voice trailed off.

He realized she had been about to say that he was _lucky_ and had belatedly realized her error, because no one who knew what had happened to Malfoy thought that he was remotely lucky. Lucky wasn’t watching Voldemort ravage your mentor and bathe you in his blood. Lucky wasn’t suffering with the rest of the spell-damaged wizards on the fourth floor ward of St. Mungo’s for the rest of your life.

Maybe lucky was not remembering any of it, though. Maybe lucky was not having to grieve over it the way Harry had grieved – still grieved – for Sirius Black.

He finally broke his silence by asking, "Do you think Snape ever knew that Draco survived Voldemort?"

Tonks thought about her answer for a moment before she spoke, drawing a strand of her spiked pink hair through her finger and thumb. "Doesn’t matter. What matters is that he intended to save Draco. In the end, that’s what counts."

Two weeks later, he went to see Draco Malfoy, not knowing what to expect.

********

No Hogwarts student had ever visited Malfoy in the time he’d been in St. Mungo’s. His Slytherin friends, knowing that he’d betrayed Voldemort, had forsaken him or else were afraid of him, although what they thought he could do to them now was unclear. He had no other friends.

His parents were in Azkaban.

He had other visitors, though. Harry had heard that nearly all of the Hogwarts professors went to see what, if anything, they could do to help him. The Ministry of Magic sent their experts, too, and issued frequent reports to the Daily Prophet that were unanimously upbeat about his imminent recovery. Even Madam Trelawney repeatedly predicted his quick return to student life, which to Harry meant that he almost certainly would never leave the fourth floor again.

He understood very well that survivor’s guilt brought him to this visit. He had survived and Malfoy had not, regardless of what the Daily Prophet professed. 

He bypassed the crowded desk in the hospital’s main floor lobby, ignoring the attention he garnered – now ten times worse than ever since word got out that he’d killed Voldemort in the Battle of Hogwarts. It hadn’t been much of a battle, really; more a skirmish with some notably awful moments. Remarkably, the only casualties were Snape, Malfoy, and Voldemort himself. Well, and Hogwarts, he admitted. The castle was badly damaged by numerous spells and a final fire. The wizarding community was busy repairing the damage, and the students and teachers had relocated to London until Hogwarts was inhabitable. 

He ignored the lift, instead opening the door to the staircase, and began his climb to the fourth floor. He briefly wondered if it would do any good if he crawled up on his knees, like he’d once seen penitents do on a television programme. He wasn’t clear on atonement, really – the Dursleys were a wholeheartedly secular family who didn’t believe in much beyond their own middle class superiority over their neighbors.

Harry wasn’t clear on sin, either, except that he believed with all the conviction of his seventeen years that he had surely sinned by surviving the Battle of Hogwarts. 

So there was guilt, which he knew quite a lot about from personal experience, and sin, which was more perplexing, and atonement, which he knew nothing about at all, except he imagined it began by climbing this staircase.

A Healer met him at the top of the fourth-floor landing. He saw that she recognized him, but her silence held and he realized that she wasn’t going to speak. Maybe fourth-floor workers were trained to be circumspect, he thought, considering the history of their patients.

"I want to see Draco Malfoy," he told her, although he suspected she already guessed that. He was afraid that she was going to start explaining Malfoy’s condition to him, or that she’d warn him not to be disappointed or surprised at what he would find, but she remained silent on that topic, too.

"Come with me," was all she said.

The shock of seeing Malfoy again was every bit as bad as he had feared it would be. It wasn’t just that Malfoy was there-but-not-there. Harry surmised it had everything to do with what Tonks had told him and what he had seen himself, and the pain of that recollection came to him so abruptly that it was all he could do to keep himself from turning around and running back down all four flights of stairs and out of this place. Instead he stayed, frozen in the doorway. The Healer, who had been watching him, patted his arm gently, then turned to go, saying, "Call me if you need anything." 

He needed a lot of things right then, he discovered. He needed more air, for one. He needed his heart to stop racing and his stomach to stop churning. He needed the walls to stop pressing in so closely.

Unlike the patients he’d seen here before, Malfoy had his own room. Harry was glad of that, not just because he didn’t want to deal with anyone else, but because he didn’t like the idea of Malfoy having to deal with anyone else, either. The room had a bed that was neatly made, several chairs, and a low table with tea things on it. There was a window, but the curtain was closed. There was very little else of note to suggest that someone lived here who had any interests of his own. 

His feet drew him farther into the room almost without his consent. 

Suddenly he noticed something in the corner that made him immediately regret that he’d first thought the room needed any of Malfoy’s things. The other boy’s Nimbus 2001 Quidditch broom had apparently survived the fire; some misguided soul had brought it all the way from Hogwarts and propped it carelessly in the corner. It didn’t belong here, Harry felt. It belonged back at Hogwarts, in the sky above the Quidditch pitch, not shoved in a corner gathering dust in this fourth-floor room. The broom, he thought, was the saddest thing in this entire sad place.

He really needed to sit down.

He drew up an empty chair. Malfoy sat motionless in his own armchair and didn’t acknowledge his presence in any way.

"Hello, Malfoy," he said, waiting for a reaction and knowing he wouldn’t get one. He couldn’t think of a single thing more to say. Instead he stared at the boy in front of him, noticing the way his arms draped gracefully along the chair; how impeccably groomed his hands were; how erect he sat; how his fine hair had grown long and gently framed his face. Someone knew Malfoy well enough to see to it that he was dressed in his usual elegant style, with clothes that looked expensive and fit him perfectly. He was impossibly blond the way some young children are, but there was nothing childlike in Malfoy’s appearance. The way he looked made Harry think of an alabaster statue of some youthful Danish king or a fairy princeling, regal and aloof and unseeing.

Harry could almost pretend that Malfoy looked content. But he could never pretend that he’d forgotten how he’d looked the last time Harry had seen him. That’s why he was here, he suspected – so that he could erase that foul, bloody memory. He needed to see Malfoy washed clean.

He had never looked at Malfoy this carefully before. He didn’t feel awkward staring at him, because really, he decided, it was more like looking at a picture than at a person. A Muggle picture at that, because apart from the gentle rise and fall of breathing and the occasional blink, Malfoy didn’t move. He remembered him as animated and expressive – most of it ill-natured and usually directed against him.

He had never noticed before how old Malfoy appeared. It was as if he had imprinted an eleven-year-old Malfoy in his brain and had never bothered to update the image. But now it was obvious that Malfoy had grown up and grown into his face, which no longer looked like a boy’s face. He had to admit that by most standards, Draco Malfoy had become beautiful, in some ethereal, otherworldly way. His face blended angled planes of cheek and forehead with softened curves of temple and chin. His aristocratic nose was long and straight, his brows were thick and delicately colored, and his grey irises were pale but ringed with a dark band that gave him the impression of depth. He wasn’t feminine, really; his face showed masculine strength. Seamus once passed on a rumor that the Malfoys weren’t as pure-blooded as they claimed, that they had veela blood, too. Looking at the Slytherin closely now, he could believe it. His was a beauty that wasn’t exactly human.

He’s _not_ human, he suddenly thought. He’s not anything. He’s gone.

He had a strong urge to open the curtain, so he crossed over to the window and tugged the panels apart. Even though St. Mungo’s was in the heart of London and buildings crowded it on all sides, a forest appeared instead – charmed there, he supposed, by someone with a fondness for nature. It appeared relaxing and peaceful, that imaginary forest, but it made him unexpectedly recall the thestrals that roamed the Forbidden Forest at Hogwarts. It struck him that Malfoy would now be able to see thestrals, too.

The Healer had stopped on her way past the open door. "Need anything?" she called in.

Harry closed his eyes. _I need to wake up from this nightmare_ , he thought wildly. _I need to know what I’m doing here._ _I need to understand why this happened._

I need forgiveness.

But what he said was, "No, nothing, thanks." She moved on and he could hear her footsteps fading away.

Suddenly he found himself talking, words pouring out of him, anything and everything he needed to say to Malfoy. He talked about the battle, and how he’d managed to defeat Voldemort. He talked about the students and teachers they knew, and about Hogwarts’ move to London. He talked about the capture of the Death Eaters and Malfoy’s parents. He talked about Ron and Hermione and the Order. He told him how sorry he was that he hadn’t known that Malfoy was on their side, sorry that he’d always tried to make Malfoy’s life miserable, sorry that he was no help in that god-awful room, sorry about Snape and his appalling death, sorry that he couldn’t seem to control the tears that coursed down his face and choked his apologies.

The torrent of words finally ended as abruptly as it had begun, leaving him feeling as exhausted as if he had just run up four flights of stairs. 

Malfoy remained as impassive as before, but that didn’t matter to Harry. No forgiveness was possible, he knew, at least until he forgave himself. He didn’t see that happening any time soon.

********

"Where were you this morning, Harry?" Ron asked after their once-a-week Charms class.

At first, Harry thought about not replying, or else answering with a lie. Much to his embarrassment, he’d recently realized that he was an adept and practiced liar. He’d perfected this skill during years with the Dursleys, where he found that it didn’t matter if he told the truth or not – they believed what they wanted about him, especially if it was negative. He’d further refined his dubious talent at Hogwarts during his frequent escapades. But once he’d noticed this failing, he decided to battle his own dishonesty and start telling the truth. Most of the time, anyway – it was harder to do than to promise.

"I went to St. Mungo’s," he said, but that seemed too disingenuous so he added, "To see Draco Malfoy."

Ron was as surprised as he had anticipated.

"What the hell for, Harry? You can’t stand him. Last time I checked, anyway."

He could see how their argument was going to unfold even before he opened his mouth to answer. Madam Trelawney would be proud. Harry would be defensive, Ron would counter with irritation, and after a few rounds, Ron would be upset but wouldn’t understand any more than he did at this moment. And that was because Harry didn’t understand it, either.

Ron knew about Malfoy and the Order, of course. Everyone did by now. Still, as far as Ron was concerned, Malfoy had never given them anything but a hard time, and it was too bad about him and all that, but there was nothing Ron could do about it. It was pretty simple, really.

So why was it so complicated for him? Why did he act as if he were somehow responsible for what happened to Malfoy? Why did he take every act of Voldemort’s so personally? It didn’t make sense. Not now, and not in the hours he’d laid awake last night going over and over it.

But when he tried to absolve himself, he remembered what Tonks had told him – that Malfoy chose isolation so that he could help defeat Voldemort, and his reward for that, his big ironic payoff, was a future just filled with it. And eleven years growing up in a cramped closet under the stairs had given him, among other things, a unique understanding of isolation.

"I needed to go, Ron. I can’t explain it any more than that."

He knew that Ron recognized his survivor’s guilt, because he’d seen it in him plenty of times before. He was as adept at taking on guilt as he was at lying. He’d perfected this skill as victims piled up around him, staring with Cedric and peaking with Sirius. Ron had never successfully stopped him from wallowing in it; maybe he would let them skip this part of the argument.

"Well, it’s not like he can chuck you out of his room, is it?"

He hadn’t seen that coming, and it reached into a sensitive area. In all likelihood, Malfoy would have chucked him out had he been able to. He didn’t like it that Malfoy had no say in the matter of his visit, and it touched on his sense of fair play. Then he recalled Tonks’ words about intent. He intended no harm, so maybe that counted for something.

"No, he can’t," was all he managed to answer.

"He’s still pretty much out of it then?"

"Yeah." Harry didn’t elaborate and Ron didn’t ask him to.

Ron let the subject drop, probably because he didn’t know that Harry was planning to go back to the hospital. He decided then that he wouldn’t tell him. But that didn’t really count as lying, did it?

********

That evening, Ron and Hermione had a prefects’ meeting, so Harry decided to walk down the street to the coffee shop that he’d adopted soon after the move to London. 

Harry found that he liked living in London very much, especially with Hogwarts recreated – after a fashion – around him. At first, everyone had been so disoriented at the move, still upset about the destruction they’d left behind that the stress was nearly unbearable. But with effort, the staff and students had settled in to a simplified, if novel, routine. The decision was made to maintain a stripped-down schedule of classes, and Harry liked not having to work as hard as usual. It gave him free time to explore the city. He liked how easily he could blend into the London crowd – no one on the streets gave him or his scar a second glance.

Like its Muggle counterpart, the bureaucracy of the Ministry of Magic had its headquarters in London. Harry had been to the Ministry’s main building, but he had not known until the move of its numerous annexes in Muggle London. These were now pressed into service as classrooms. The students were scattered around the area in flats and hotels, living in little groups and trying to stay hidden from the Muggles that surrounded them. Harry remembered the surprised Ministry official who couldn’t fathom why landlords seemed to care so much about all of the owls moving in.

Harry shared a room with Ron; two slightly saggy beds and a fold-out couch, in what he thought was a pretty decent hotel a few blocks from the Leaky Cauldron. Seamus, Neville, and Dean were in a connecting room, but Hermione, with the other Gryffindor girls, lived in a flat a few streets away. The hotel had no common room, so the students congregated in the tiny lobby under the noses of the Muggle staff, where they had to be on their guard. After the first week, Professor McGonagall had instructed the hotel staff not to permit students to use room service, because the boys from wizarding families had mistaken it for house-elf service and run up an enormous bill.

For the first two weeks, the students took special classes in blending in. For the Muggle-born it was easier, but not without difficulty after the relaxed standards at Hogwarts. For the wizard born, it was much tougher. Only the teachers were allowed to Apparate. The students couldn’t use brooms or Floo, so they were relegated to walking around the city where they were much more visible. Robes were discouraged. They had to learn about Muggle money. 

The Ministry conscripted some of its employees to serve as house parents for the scattered students. They soon added additional staff to perform memory charms in the community after the students inevitably forgot their instructions to blend in. Much to Harry's delight, Tonks had been assigned to his hotel.

Still, Harry looked forward to the day when Hogwarts would reopen and they could return. There was no Quidditch in London, and he missed Hagrid, who had stayed behind at Hogwarts for the reconstruction.

He’d been frequenting Booth’s coffee shop often enough that the waitstaff recognized him and nodded when he entered. Here he wasn’t Harry Potter, Voldemort slayer – here he was only a student who showed up some evenings and ordered the house blend with room for cream and a dash of cinnamon. He settled in at the table he usually claimed as his own. The waitress whose name tag identified her as Linda came over to his table to take his order.

A noise at the door made him lift his head to see Tonks entering the shop. She had apparently grown tired of pink hair, because now it was a deep metallic blue tipped with white, and Harry thought it suited her. She wore a purple Ministry tank top with the slogan "Defending against the Dark Arts since 1149," but he knew that Muggles tended to ignore anything printed on a shirt. She also wore a black skirt that was so short that Harry didn’t dare look at her anywhere below her slogan.

Linda’s eyes widened when Tonks waved at him. He didn’t want her to suppose he had a thing for slightly older women, or maybe just this slightly older woman, who upon consideration seemed to be Linda’s age, so he muttered, "That’s one of my teachers."

"Did I ask?" Linda replied, but she was laughing. 

Tonks came over and sat down, ordering a cappuccino, decaf. "Don’t want to be up all night," she explained. Linda brought their drinks over and asked, "So what do you teach?"

"Art," said Harry at the same time Tonks answered, "Latin." Harry reddened.

"Art and Latin," Tonks said. Harry determined to keep his mouth shut. 

"I didn’t know anyone still studied Latin," Linda noted.

"Well, we may be the only school in England that teaches it. We go out of our way to offer only subjects that will guarantee that our graduates are unemployable," Tonks said with a friendly grin.

Linda chuckled at that. "Most schools aren’t honest enough to admit it. What’s the name of this uncommon school?"

"Ravenclaw Academy," Tonks replied, with a fixed look at Harry, but he had learned his lesson and didn’t try to re-enter the conversation. The school name had been suggested by the Ministry and adopted for London, to the outspoken disgust of the Slytherins.

"I’ve never heard of it." 

"It’s pretty far north of here. We had a fire at our school last month and we’re in London temporarily until everything’s fixed up." That seemed to satisfy Linda, who eased back behind the counter.

"Sorry," Harry muttered.

"No problem, Harry. Secretly, I’ve always wanted to be a Hogwarts professor." He could tell she was enjoying his discomfort by the gleam in her eye. "I have a favor to ask, anyway, so I’m glad you’re in my debt."

He wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that. "What kind of favor?" 

"The Ministry asked me to coax you to write what happened at the Battle of Hogwarts," she answered. "For a new chapter of _Hogwarts, a History_."

"Oh," he said as he madly scrambled for any excuse to get out of it. No wonder he was so good at lying, he thought, he had so many opportunities to practice. He could tell her he was too busy, although he wasn’t, or he could tell her he didn’t know enough about it, although he did. What could he say that was true?

"I’m not that good a writer." That was indisputable.

"Someone would edit it for you," she answered smoothly. "You’d only have to get the facts down. The historians will rewrite it anyway."

Damn. The only other true thing he could say was that he really didn’t want to think about that day at Hogwarts. He definitely didn’t want to write about it. But he didn’t want to explain his reasons, either. He sighed. "Okay, then. I’ll do it."

Tonks brightened. "Great, Harry. I thought I’d have to bully you a lot worse before you’d agree."

"Now you tell me," he complained. The only saving thought he had was that, other than Hermione, he didn’t know anyone who’d actually read _Hogwarts, A History_. With luck, his part would sink without a trace. Maybe old Binns would put classes to sleep with it in about a hundred years.

"Don’t get fussed about it. I would have made you cave in eventually, so we just saved a lot of time." She sat back with a satisfied smile. "So drink your coffee, and I’ll catch you up on some gossip. Mad-Eye has a girlfriend, can you believe it?"

**Chapter 2 - Silver Shining**

> _É uma conta, é um conto, é um peixe, é um gesto,  
>  É uma prata brilhando, é a luz da manhã._
> 
> _(It's a tally, it’s a tale, it's a fish, it’s a gesture,  
>  It's the morning’s light, it's silver shining.) _

Harry visited Malfoy the next morning, and every morning after that.

He usually got there at breakfast, and the Healer let him help. He learned that Malfoy could feed himself if someone got him started. He could walk with a little guidance. He was able to dress and bathe and take care of his basic needs, and Harry found solace in that. During the day, he was told, Healers worked with him at physical therapy to make sure his muscles were exercised, and they kept him active.

But no one tried to reach Malfoy’s mind. No one saw the point, he concluded, because Malfoy really didn’t have a mind anymore. That’s what everyone thought, anyway, but they were careful never to mention it. He didn’t want to believe it, even though if he let himself think about it he would have to admit it was true. Malfoy moved through life as though someone had put him under the Imperius Curse, but had forgotten to command him to do anything.

So Harry took it upon himself to stimulate Draco Malfoy’s nonexistent mind in a way that, had they known, would have made the Daily Prophet and Madam Trelawney and the other deluded optimists proud. He brought wizard and Muggle newspapers and read him snippets from the more harmless stories, as long as they didn’t mention either one of them. He brought gossip from the few classes that were meeting in what was Hogwarts-in-exile. He read him puzzles from the Quibbler. He brought every bit of useless information that he could scavenge and laid them all at Malfoy’s feet like an offering.

"You won’t believe this, Malfoy, but the Chudley Cannons won again. Looks like their latest trade is actually going to do them some good. Ron is beside himself with joy, of course -- they’re his favorite team. You probably didn’t know that."

He almost brought up Hogwarts Quidditch until he remembered the useless broom in the corner, and he abruptly stopped. He was becoming used to cutting off his soliloquies, because there were so many hidden land mines in the most innocent topics. He couldn’t anticipate them all until he found himself backpedaling suddenly. But Malfoy, of course, never noticed.

Harry was unsettled by his misstep, and when he was unsettled he tended to talk too much. Today was no exception.

"Ron’s brother Charlie works with dragons, did you know that, Malfoy?" The mention of Charlie was all the push he needed to embark on a monologue about the Weasleys, singular and collective. What started as simple stories about them to entertain Malfoy evolved, to his dismay, into a treatise about their importance in his life. He noticed that he had little control of his tongue in these circumstances. 

"I don’t know why they adopted me into their family, Malfoy," he heard himself say, "But it’s one of the best things that ever happened to me. I wish you could get to know them like I do. You always talk about how poor they are, but I don’t see them that way. They’re rich in more things than money."

The Healer had come in to remove the breakfast dishes. 

"Oh, it looks like I forgot to have Draco comb his hair this morning," she noted. "It was a little hectic out on the ward. The Longbottoms went home this morning and there were a lot of visitors."

Harry had already heard the news. He was happy for Neville but had avoided the crowd. He didn’t want to explain what he was doing here.

The Healer had the comb in her hand and was moving to Malfoy’s chair when Harry abruptly said, "Let me do it."

He had a sudden compelling need to do something for Malfoy that was visibly useful, something that made a difference, no matter how small, to the silent boy. Reading to him, talking to him – that was all for Harry’s benefit, and Harry knew it.

The comb passed silently to Harry, and the woman smiled at him slightly before she left.

He had never touched Malfoy before except in anger, so he was a bit nervous. His own hair testified to his lack of any hairdressing skill, and he was afraid of hurting him by pulling out knots as he usually did when he yanked at his own tangles. So he began very slowly, drawing the teeth through the fine silvery-blond locks that were absurdly soft, like baby hair or feathers or silk. The strands were far from a uniform color: some were a dark honey and others were pale pewter like shining silver. He combed lightly through every strand, carefully and deliberately, then he took his hand and ruffled the hair gently just so he could begin again. 

He had never imagined that this simple act could be so rewarding; that it could make him sense that here, finally, was something tangible he could give Draco. That maybe atonement might not be so impossible after all.

********

Harry combed Malfoy’s hair every morning after that. 

He still brought him news and gossip. Sometimes he brought the chapter he was struggling to write, and read the new parts out loud. But he never spoke at all when he combed Draco’s blond hair. 

He began his new ritual by standing behind him. Occasionally he leaned closer to inhale the sharp spicy aroma of whatever was used to wash Draco’s hair in the early morning. He smelled of cloves and citrus and March rain. Then he moved to a chair in front of Draco where he could absorb the effect of that unnervingly beautiful face. When he faced Draco like this and stroked the fine strands along his cheek, sometimes with the comb and sometimes with just his fingertips, the other boy’s eyes would stray towards his. Then Harry would pretend that he knew that Harry was trying to give him something, which might have been part of himself.

"It looks like Mr. Malfoy could use a haircut," the Healer had mentioned to Harry one morning.

"No, don’t cut it," he had replied. "Please?" He knew he sounded idiotic asking her, but he didn’t want anyone to take away any more from Draco than he’d already lost.

She hadn’t answered, just nodded agreement as if she understood what Harry was really asking.

********

Harry decided that Booth’s coffee shop was the perfect place to work on his chapter for _Hogwarts, A History_. He settled into his table in the evenings and eked out three entire paragraphs in only a week. At this rate, he thought despondently, he would be finished in about thirty years.

His writing caught Linda’s attention.

"The teacher you saw in here the other day assigned me this," Harry admitted. 

"I had you pegged for an artist," she said. "Are you writing in Latin?"

He was confused, then recalled the slip-up about what Tonks supposedly taught. Art and Latin, he remembered.

"No, it’s in English." He was glad he decided to use sheets of paper and not a scroll – that was one less lie he’d have to concoct. "It’s a fantasy," he added. That one was a pre-emptive lie. Lying to Muggles was a necessity for wizards, anyway, so maybe it didn’t matter.

She surprised him by asking, "May I read it?"

"Why?" was his honest response.

"Well, I majored in English and philosophy. I have an interest, I guess."

"What are you doing working here?" He realized too late how tactless his question was.

"Didn’t I just answer that? I majored in English and philosophy," she said with a grin. "Your school doesn’t have the franchise on unemployable alumnae."

"Sorry." 

"No matter. After I graduated last year, I decided to work on building up a patina of world-weary cynicism until I come to my senses and head off to law school. Is that better? Oh, yeah, and my boyfriend owns this place."

"Oh."

"And now that you know my brief life story, we better introduce ourselves before it’s so far past that point that it’s embarrassing. I’m Linda, like the tag says."

"I’m James." Lying was like eating nuts, he ruefully thought. Just so hard to stop at one.

"So can I read your story, James?"

"It’s not very long yet," he protested.

"Doesn’t matter. If you don’t want me to, just say so."

But Harry found he didn’t really object to showing her his story. He could use a more trained eye to review it, and maybe he’d write more if he knew he had an audience. He was finding it hard to write for posterity – maybe writing for Linda, the overeducated coffee shop waitress, would be easier. Now he was glad he’d told her it was a fantasy, and not the history it really was. 

"Be kind," he told her as he handed it over to her. "It’s my first one." 

Harry felt self-conscious watching her scan his writing, and was glad when she finished.

"Interesting," she said. "Great names for the characters – Voldemort and Dumbledore. Nice ring to them. You kind of jump right to the action, though. Who are these people? You might want to add an introduction for the reader."

"The reader already knows who they are," he said, not knowing where he was going with this thought. "It’s a sequel," he concluded.

"I thought you just said this was your first," she said warily.

__

Crap. "It’s a sequel to something someone else wrote," he volunteered, hoping to recover from his slip and thinking suddenly that maybe this was a really bad idea. "I’ll add an introduction."

"Keep writing," she encouraged. "I like it."

He felt warm all over. He spent the next two hours furiously scribbling, and he was surprised when the evening passed so quickly.

********

The next morning, Harry brought his chapter with him and read it aloud to Malfoy over breakfast.

"And that’s how Death Eaters got into Hogwarts that day," Harry told him. "So many of them had sons and daughters at school that they just walked in the front door. Visiting, they said. And not all of their kids were in Slytherin, either, but I guess you knew that. But not all the Slytherins were Voldemort supporters. Guess you knew that, too." He fell silent for a moment and then added, "Guess you knew a lot of things I was too dense to notice."

He always tried his best to be upbeat during his visits, with varying success. Today was not an upbeat day. Rumors that morning had been that Hogwarts would reopen soon. He didn’t want to think about the approaching day when they would all leave London and Draco behind. Just now he no longer cared to blather about the latest Chudley Cannon scores, so instead he reached for the comb. He didn’t understand why he found comfort in combing Draco Malfoy’s hair, but neither could he deny it.

He sat down in what he now regarded as his chair and finished smoothing the last few strands away from Draco’s empty eyes. He lowered his hands, still holding the comb in his left hand, and rested them on his own jeans-clad legs. He studied Malfoy, taking in the lift of his head, the curve of his neck, and the unusual shading of his vacant grey eyes.

Unexpectedly, something touched his hand. When he glanced down, he saw that Draco had moved his own hand from its usual spot on the chair arm and now clasped Harry’s hand in his. He looked up at Draco and his heart raced with expectation, but nothing in the other boy’s expression had changed.

"Malfoy, can you hear me?" He got no acknowledgment.

He tried pressing Draco’s hand, with no accompanying response. Eventually, he resigned himself to accepting that there was no significance in the hand that held his, no more than when Draco held his teacup at breakfast.

********

Harry, chastened after his impetuous sermon on the Weasleys three days earlier, began chatting to Draco after breakfast about something amusing that Hermione’s cat Crookshanks had done the night before. Not that it was interesting, but he needed a lighthearted and safe topic, so he launched into it. Only a few words into his narrative, however, Draco’s hand again sought his and held on. It didn’t let go, either, through the story – which turned out to be more disjointed than he’d intended – or through the fluff from the Quibbler that he awkwardly fumbled through using his one free hand.

The next thing he knew, he had wandered on to the subject of the Dursleys, and he found himself telling Draco about growing up in Little Whinging, and the room under the stairs. Once he had started, he couldn't seem to stop. In the back of his mind he was aware of the absurdity of what he was doing; maybe, he reckoned, he should be lying on a couch in a psychiatrist's office, instead of sitting here, holding Draco's hand, babbling about his past. Before he realized it, the morning had nearly passed.

Finally, Harry pulled his hand away. "I need to comb your hair."

And that was exactly true. He didn’t tell the other boy, "Your hair wants combing," or "I’m going to get the comb now," and he wondered at what point during the past weeks that combing Draco’s hair had become such a need for Harry. But there it was.

The satiny texture under his fingers and the rich aroma – cloves and citrus and March rain – were so sensual that he wasn’t able to resist an urge to lean forward and run his own cheek across the top of Draco’s head just to inhale the sweet scent more deeply and to feel the softness with something other than calloused hands. He pulled away quickly, however, with not a little guilt, because he knew that if he’d ever done that before, Draco would have tossed him out the window, forest or no forest. It was okay to comb Draco’s hair, he believed, because Draco needed his hair to be combed; anything beyond that was wrong.

He returned to his chair and finished his task, never rushing and never taking his eyes from the other boy’s face. The minute he pulled the comb away, Draco’s hand again found his. And squeezed. Harry looked up sharply at that, searching Draco's face for a sign that the action was anything more than instinctive, but saw nothing. Nothing at all.

********

Harry’s writing had been fruitful since he’d started showing it to Linda at the coffee shop. He knew he’d made a major breakthrough when he was able to set down some of what he’d witnessed in the room where he found Draco and Snape. He hoped that the Ministry would be satisfied with the limited description he’d managed to pen. There were four versions of Snape’s death: what had really happened, what Harry had seen and remembered much too clearly, what Draco had seen and could never share, and what Harry could acknowledge and allow himself to write down. 

Linda was talking about the fourth version.

"You’re really hard on your characters," she told him.

"I can’t help it," Harry answered.

"Your Professor Snape dies pretty horribly. Think your readers are ready for that?"

"Probably not."

"No, probably not. It’s too gruesome, James, you may want to tone it down. Get rid of some of the blood and gore."

"Okay," he lied, knowing it was easier to agree than argue, but he wouldn’t change what he had written.

"You do a great job describing Harry’s discovery of Snape and Draco Malfoy, though. Very realistic. And the way you explain what Harry is feeling is terrific."

Harry eyed her nervously but didn’t reply.

"I love this part: ‘Harry Potter didn’t know how Voldemort ended up impaled on Godric Gryffindor’s sword, but Potter must have been holding it because it was still in his hand. Either he had stabbed him or else Dumbledore had pushed Voldemort back on the sword clear up to the hilt. In either case, Voldemort was finally dead, hopefully for good.’ Nice writing, James."

"Thanks," he mumbled, trying unsuccessfully not to recall the visions that went with the words.

"Voldemort’s death is anticlimactic, though. Harry just stabs him with a sword and he dies. It’s too convenient that he had that sword handy. Do you expect that Godric Gryffindor’s sword just pops up for Harry when he needs it?"

"Sometimes," he said guardedly.

"Anyway, you should add more to the final duel between Harry and Voldemort. Voldemort is so creepy and evil – you’ve made him into a fantastic villain. Make Harry work harder to kill him."

"But Dumbledore had weakened him badly at that point. The prophecy only said that Harry would be the one to kill Voldemort, not that he couldn’t have help. The Order did most of the work. I explained all that."

"But Harry’s your hero."

"No, he isn’t," Harry said vehemently. "Dumbledore’s the hero."

But Linda just laughed. "I think your characters are getting away from you, James. They want to have lives of their own."

This discussion was getting stranger by the minute, he thought. "Maybe. But I don’t think Potter is the hero."

Linda shrugged. "So what’s going to happen to your other hero, Draco Malfoy?"

Harry was getting very uncomfortable. He hadn’t thought about how hard this discussion might be. He had been relieved at just having got it down on paper.

"I don’t know what’s going to happen to Draco," he admitted softly.

"You can’t leave him rotting in St. Mungo’s; it wouldn’t be fair. Not after he risked his life for the good guys."

He couldn’t trust his voice to answer.

"Harry should rescue him," Linda said firmly.

"Dumbledore can’t even help him," Harry burst out. "How’s Potter supposed to, when all the Hogwarts professors and all those ministry specialists can’t help him?"

"Settle down there, James," she admonished gently. "I only want to help you improve your story. I don’t mean it personally."

"Sorry," he said, forcing his voice to be calm. "But Potter is clueless about how to help Draco."

"Well, I trust he’ll come up with something. It’s what heroes do."

"He’s _not_ the goddamn hero," Harry muttered angrily under his breath, as he roughly stacked up his papers to head back to his room.

**Chapter 3 - A Hunch and a Hope**

> _É o vento ventando, é o fim da ladeira,  
>  É a viga, é o vão, festa da cumeeira._
> 
> _(It's the wind blowing free, It's the end of the slope,  
>  It's a beam, it's a void, it's a hunch, it's a hope.)_

Harry was becoming adept at manipulating newspapers one-handed. He was reading the wizarding sports news to Draco with enthusiasm.

"‘The Cannons think this latest strategy will help their defense,’" he read, but Draco had pressed his hand and Harry, startled, let the Daily Prophet slide to the floor. He bent over to regain it, excited by the contact but trying to maintain his composure. He fumbled with the paper and began again.

"Ummm, let’s see, ‘...This latest strategy will help...’"

And again, Draco’s grip tightened on Harry’s hand.

He stopped reading and looked at Draco closely but nothing else happened.

"I guess you’re starting to get into the Chudley Cannons now that they’re winning," he said, just to say something. "Ron will be thrilled. One more fan, even a fair-weather one, can only help his cause." He stopped because Draco’s hand had again pressed his. And suddenly he _knew_ , and that knowledge was as explosive and undeniable as a Bludger to the head. He knew that Draco was trying to tell him something, that he was aware and watching from behind those unseeing eyes, that he was struggling to fight his way back from that distant country where he was exiled. Because Harry had finally realized just why Draco was squeezing his hand.

"It’s _help_ , isn’t it?" he asked in a voice so choked that he could barely muster any volume. And Draco replied with another squeeze.

Emotions coursed through Harry like molten lava, pinning him to his chair. First, elation at Draco's responsiveness—he had been right to have hoped, he had been right to have searched for signs. But that was soon followed by the weight of the realization that he didn't have the first idea of _how_ to help. It was the first thing Draco had asked for, and he was already failing him.

He was holding both of Draco’s hands tightly in his own as if somehow he could simply drag him back from wherever he was by sheer desire. Draco slowly lifted his head and for some measure of time – it might have been only an instant or it might have been longer – those grey eyes fastened on Harry’s green ones, and he knew that Draco was with him there.

The moment passed and Harry watched the light fade from Draco’s eyes, leaving them again unfocused and unseeing. He tried unsuccessfully to re-engage him, reading him articles and telling rambling stories until he felt he was outright blathering, but he got no further response. Draco was gone.

But Harry could wait. He was so excited about the thought of what he might find when he returned tomorrow after Draco had rested, knowing that he wouldn’t have to pretend to be hopeful anymore, that he almost forgot to comb Draco’s hair. Almost.

********

Anybody but Harry would have gone to Dumbledore immediately. After all, he knew without hesitation that Draco had done something noteworthy, and he didn’t doubt what he’d seen. But history hadn’t been kind to him whenever he tried to convince other people of what he was sure was true, and he had grown overcautious. So instead he went to Hermione.

"I need you to visit Draco Malfoy with me tomorrow morning," he told her.

"Why?" she immediately asked. He could tell by her expression she didn’t want to do it, but he wasn’t going to let her say no. If he’d wanted rejection, he would have asked Ron.

"I think he’s trying to talk to me," he answered simply. "I need your objective opinion."

He could see that appealed to her, as he anticipated it would. He knew she was always willing to keep his leaps of faith in check.

"You’ve been visiting him? I didn’t know that." He was grateful when she didn’t add, "Whatever for?"

"I don’t have any classes before lunch," he replied, as if that was an explanation. He had recently discovered that an answer that didn’t actually address the question could be just as effective as a lie.

"Well, I have Arithmancy first thing in the morning. I could meet you there after that."

"Thanks a lot, Hermione. I’ll see you there tomorrow morning, then. Fourth floor." 

********

The next day, Hermione made her way through London to St. Mungo’s. She walked down the fourth-floor hall hesitantly, meeting up with a Healer at the door of what turned out to be Malfoy’s room. Harry was already there.

Harry didn’t seem to have noticed them outside the door, Hermione concluded, and realized that it was because his eyes were closed. At first she didn’t recognize what he was doing, because it was so unexpected, but then she saw that he was combing Malfoy’s hair.

"What on earth...." she exclaimed softly.

The Healer, who was watching with a tender expression, replied, "Mr. Potter is an exceptional boy, isn’t he? He comes here every morning. He likes to read to Draco and comb his hair like that. Isn’t it sweet? They must have been such good friends."

"No, they weren’t," Hermione blurted out. "They hate each other."

The Healer turned to her with a thoughtful gaze. "Ah." 

"No, I mean it. For the past seven years, they’ve been at each other’s throats."

"Oh, I believe you," replied the Healer. "I’ve seen this happen before."

Hermione looked back into the room in disbelief, where Harry was still absorbed in his unlikely task.

"I can’t explain it," the Healer added. "But then, if you asked your friend you’d find that he can’t explain it, either."

Hermione waited alone in the hallway until Harry had finished. He took far longer than she would have imagined. When Harry finally noticed her, she pretended that she had just arrived, because she wasn’t sure if he would be embarrassed to know she’d been watching.

"Thanks for coming, Hermione," he said, and she could tell he was happy to see her.

"You knew I would," she said. "You asked me to." 

Harry turned to Malfoy and said, "Hermione came this morning, Draco." He started chattering to him about school matters, but she knew that what he was really doing was giving her some time to acclimate herself to seeing Malfoy the way he was now.

Malfoy’s total absence disturbed her, even though she’d been warned what to expect. And seeing Harry combing his hair…it was unsettling, she decided, unsettling and confusing. She had never heard Harry call him _Draco_ before, either – what could that mean? But she was here to be objective, she reminded herself.

"Pull that chair over here," Harry was telling her, "and I’ll bring this one over, too." They both sat down very close to Malfoy. She started in surprise when Malfoy’s hand reached out and held on to Harry’s, then after a moment, his other hand found hers. She didn’t know what to think.

"Draco, I’m going to ask you a question. One squeeze is yes and two is no."

Malfoy squeezed their hands once, and Harry shot her a quick, nervous smile. She was glad that he was in charge, because she couldn’t think of a single yes or no question.

"Do you know where you are?" he began.

One squeeze. _Yes._

"Are you at Hogwarts?"

Two squeezes. _No_.

"Are you in hospital?" 

One squeeze. _Yes._ Then two squeezes. _No._ She gave Harry a puzzled look.

"You are in hospital and you are somewhere else, too?" Harry ventured.

_Yes._

"It’s going to be hard to narrow it down with yes or no," Harry said, mostly to Hermione, but Malfoy also answered, _yes_.

"I’ve got an idea. We’ll ask him letter by letter." Rather than explain it, she addressed Malfoy.

"Spell it out, then. First letter, is it between A and M?" _Yes_. "Between A and G?" _Yes_. "A, B, C, D, E..." It was E. Letter by letter, they worked through the entire word.

__

Empty.

She glanced at Harry, who looked as distressed as if he’d seen a dementor.

"Anything else?" she asked Malfoy.

The next word was _water_.

"I don’t understand," Hermione said, but she didn’t know if she was addressing Harry or Malfoy. "Is he in some place with water?" Harry didn’t know, either.

But Malfoy was gone again.

"I think it tires him out, fighting whatever’s got hold of him. But we got a lot farther than I did yesterday."

"Harry, you were right." In her excitement, she had scooted to the edge of her chair, unaware and unconcerned that she still held Malfoy’s hand tightly in her grip.

"Yeah, I was right," he said, with a shaky grin. "And I think it’s time to talk to Dumbledore."

********

Hermione had class all the next morning, and insisted on missing it to visit Malfoy again, but Harry wouldn’t let her. "I promise I’ll tell you everything," he told her. "The roof would cave in if you skived off." 

Harry was at the door of St. Mungo’s before visitors were permitted, but Draco’s Healer saw him waiting and smuggled him in. He was just putting the comb away when Dumbledore arrived.

"Good morning, Harry," Dumbledore said in a cheerful voice. "Good morning, Draco."

"Good morning, sir," Harry answered and moved to pull up two chairs for them. He was so charged up that he couldn’t settle down, even though all the previous night he had been trying to dampen his hopes. After all, Dumbledore’s success wasn’t guaranteed.

"Well, let’s begin, then, shall we?" the older man said. "Mr. Malfoy has been very patient with us these many weeks."

Harry immediately sat down beside Dumbledore, and as before, Draco reached out to them.

"Hermione and I asked Draco questions, and then he answered yes or no by squeezing our hands, and he can spell words…." He trailed off, realizing he’d explained this already – numerous times – but Dumbledore was regarding him kindly and letting him ramble. "Sorry, sir. Go on."

"Mr. Malfoy. Do you remember the spell that was used on you?" Dumbledore asked.

__

_I am so stupid_ , Harry thought, _Why did I waste time trying to figure out where Draco was?_ Dumbledore got to the heart of the matter so directly. Harry had focused on his own concern – was Draco suffering somewhere? – but Dumbledore asked the question that was important to Draco and was, of course, the only question needing an answer. 

Yes, Malfoy squeezed.

"We’ll spell it out with you," Harry said. Together they worked out the words.

_Animus occultus_. Harry had never heard of that spell. _Animus_ meant mind, he knew, and _occultus_ meant something like hidden.

"Of course," said Dumbledore. "We were certainly barking up the wrong tree all this time."

"What do you mean? It wasn’t dementors, then?"

"No, Harry, it wasn’t dementors. In fact it wasn’t even Voldemort that cast this spell. It was Professor Snape."

_Yes._

He was confused. "But Professor Snape wasn’t working for Voldemort, was he?" If Snape wasn’t on their side, what did that mean about Draco?

"No, Professor Snape wasn’t helping Voldemort," Dumbledore said. " _Animus occultus_ is a protection spell, Harry. A very powerful protection spell, as a matter of fact, and not many wizards are developed enough to use it. I think it is apparent that Professor Snape was trying to protect Draco from Voldemort by concealing his mind from him. This spell will shield someone against the Unforgivable Curses."

Harry badly wanted to ask what good was a protection spell that left the beneficiary worse than dead, but he didn’t dare.

Dumbledore continued. "If I’m not mistaken, that’s how Draco survived. As you know, Harry, when someone makes such a deliberate sacrifice to protect another, it is extremely powerful."

He was overwhelmed. He’d never made the connection between Snape and Draco apart from the fact they were both found together. Tonks had tried to tell him, he realized now, but he hadn't been able to see past his hatred of Snape to understand her words. Now Dumbledore had declared that Snape not only had died, he had died for Malfoy, just as Harry’s mother had died for him. Suddenly, he felt far worse.

" _Animus occultus_ is not without its drawbacks, but it is effective. I admire Professor Snape’s decision to use it."

Harry couldn’t believe he’d said that. He had been left with a scar, but it was nothing compared to what had happened to Draco. "I don’t understand."

Dumbledore replied gently, "Of course you don’t, Harry. Let me explain. The spell has two parts to it. The first allows the mind to be withdrawn from the body – that is, the conscious part of the mind, the part that is affected by the Unforgivable Curses. As you can see, the part of the brain that controls body function is untouched. Mr. Malfoy can still breathe, move, eat, walk, and so on." 

"And the second part of the spell?"

"The second part, Harry, allows the caster to specify the length of time the spell will last."

"So the spell ends?"

"It’s supposed to, yes."

"Then why would Professor Snape have wanted Draco to be under the spell so long?"

"The answer to that, Harry, is that he didn’t. What happened to Draco, I’m afraid, is that Professor Snape was attacked before he could complete the spell, leaving Draco’s mind hidden forever."

Harry’s heart fell at those words. 

"But now I think it is time to complete the spell and fulfill the sacrifice that Professor Snape made for Draco."

"Then you can bring him back?" he asked, looking in Dumbledore’s face and finding his hope confirmed.

"Oh, yes, Harry. And I intend to do just that." He stood up and drew out his wand.

" _Animus claro_ ," Dumbledore intoned. " _Animus aperio_."

Harry felt the hand holding his tighten. He watched Draco hopefully, afraid to even breathe.

" _Corpus et animus denio contraho_ ," Dumbledore spoke.

Ever since his first day at Hogwarts, Harry had thrilled to see a spell take effect. Maybe because he was brought up without magic, it never failed to captivate him to watch something transform so unexpectedly from one thing to another. From professor to cat. From toad to teacup. In his seven years as a student, he had seen enough dark transformations to convince him of the existence of evil in the world. But he’d also seen enough miraculous transformations to convince him of the prevalence of good. And what he was watching now was miraculous. 

Because in that instant, with a wand flick and a sonorous word, the spell was broken, and Malfoy lifted his head and focused his eyes on Dumbledore and on Harry and smiled.

He had never seen Draco Malfoy smile that way before. He’d never seen _anyone_ smile that way before.

"Welcome back, Draco," said Dumbledore.

"Thank you, sir," Malfoy answered in a voice, hoarse from disuse, that Harry hadn’t heard in months. He turned to Harry, still smiling. 

"Congratulations, Potter. Your dim Gryffindor brain finally figured it out. Too bad you weren’t a Slytherin, or I’d have been out of here weeks ago."

Dumbledore was laughing at Draco’s words and Harry’s bewilderment, and Draco joined him. All three of them were standing now, and Draco thrust his hand toward Harry. "Thanks," he said, more somberly.

He took his hand and they shook. Then to his utter surprise, Draco Malfoy – his sworn enemy, perpetual nemesis, and relentless antagonist – flung his arms around Harry and gave him a clumsy but enthusiastic bear hug. "I mean it, Potter, thanks." 

********

It took a while to settle both boys back into their chairs, but Dumbledore was patient. 

"Perhaps you are wondering why I never used _animus occultus_ to protect you, Harry. It’s because it leaves the bearer unprepared to defend himself when it ends. It’s an abrupt transition, as you saw, and I wouldn’t have been wise to leave you so unprotected against Voldemort." 

"So what happens to someone under the _animus occultus_ – spell?" Harry asked. He’d almost called it a curse. "Besides _empty_ and _water_?"

Draco frowned in concentration. "It’s hard to put into words. My mind was just...somewhere else. Somewhere that wasn’t anywhere. I could think, but not normally – that’s the _empty_ part. But then there was a mysterious rhythm under the emptiness, too. But I knew it would take forever to spell out _mysterious rhythm_ – I don’t even think I know _how_ to spell it – so I came up with _water_." He looked at Harry with an odd expression. "There were some other effects, too." He didn’t elaborate.

Dumbledore spoke. "It would perhaps be easier to show you than tell you, Harry. If you’re willing, that is." It was a testament to Harry’s faith in Dumbledore that he nodded his agreement, knowing that it had gone so wrong with Draco. "I’ll use a time factor so that the spell will end on its own. Would four minutes be enough, do you think, Draco?"

"Four minutes would be plenty, sir," Malfoy answered, with a knowing smile.

Dumbledore stood in front of Harry and pointed his wand at him. Harry heard him say, " _Animus occulto. Tractus parumper quater_." 

The world shifted and Harry suddenly found himself in a different place. Empty, yes, with an undercurrent that pulsed somehow. As he imagined an ocean current might feel, but he couldn’t really _feel_ because he wasn’t connected to his body. That’s what Draco meant by _water_. When he was in this place he felt no emotion. There was no joy, or sadness, or worry, or laughter. There was no fear, but there was no hope. There was no past and no future, just endless empty present.

He heard voices, distant at first. As he focused on the voices, he became aware of the hospital room and Dumbledore and Draco. He could see them and hear them talking, and he could concentrate enough to understand what they said, but he couldn’t speak to them. He concluded that Draco had heard everything Harry had ever told him. He supposed he should have some reaction to that knowledge, but he couldn’t feel anything.

He noticed his hands in his lap and willed them to move, but he was unsuccessful. He couldn’t understand how Draco had ever broken through to him – it seemed impossible. 

Dumbledore was handing him a cup of tea, and he watched his own hands take the cup and bring it to his lips, and he drank. He decided that although he couldn’t make his hands move under willful command, he wasn’t immobile – it took an external signal before he could move. As he drank, he sensed rather than tasted the tea, and it wasn’t normal by any description of normal. He watched himself hand the cup back. Dumbledore’s hand brushed his during the exchange, and for a brief second, he thought he felt a stirring of emotion – touch was pleasant, he decided.

Draco had moved out of his field of vision, and he casually wondered where he’d gone.

Suddenly he felt something surge through him – his body? His mind? He wasn’t sure how to describe it, except that it was strong, overwhelming, and wonderful. What was happening? He tried to analyze it, but mostly he was just feeling it, intoxicating streams of joy and exhilaration pouring through him. It was almost too intense to bear.

He was being touched. Draco was touching him -- that touch triggered these feelings, he discovered. No, he wasn’t just touching him....

Draco was combing Harry’s hair. And the sensation was euphoric. He willingly surrendered to the waves of pure contentment he felt. 

With a jolt, the spell ended, and he was back together again. Dumbledore was watching him with amusement, and Draco was still behind him with his hands in Harry’s dark locks.

He was so shocked by the experience and mortified by its implications that he couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. All he could think, again and again, was _what did I do_?

"Harry?" Dumbledore’s voice was gentle, and Draco’s face was full of concern as he moved back to his chair and sat down, comb still in hand.

His voice was unsteady when he finally spoke. "I...I didn’t know, Malfoy. I’m sorry. I didn’t know..." 

All he could focus on were all the things he’d said to him, not really believing Draco could hear him, and all the times he’d touched him and made him feel so....so blissful.

"Did you hear me complain, Potter?" the boy answered, and it sounded to Harry like he was trying not to laugh. "At least I had something to look forward to every day."

Dumbledore apparently concluded that Harry was in no real danger and stood up. "I will go and arrange your release, Draco. You’ve spent quite enough time here." He left.

"I’m sorry," Harry repeated to Draco, not daring to look him in the eye.

"Don’t be. I’m not. At least I’m up on all the current events of no real import, and I think I even got pretty good at the Quibbler puzzles." 

He couldn’t let it go. "I didn’t know."

"So you said. Three times now. Listen, Potter, how could you know? It’s a pretty strange spell. Even Professor Dumbledore didn’t recognize it."

"I’m sorry, Malfoy." He realized that he'd thought of him as 'Draco' for some time now and forced himself to say ‘Malfoy’.

"And I keep telling you there’s nothing to be sorry about. Stupid Gryffindor. Dumbledore didn’t show you the spell to make you feel guilty. We wanted you to understand it."

"I’m not sure four minutes was enough to understand it all that well," Harry answered, finally courageous enough to look at Draco.

"Probably not. Just multiply that experience by eight weeks and you’ll have it."

"Empty," Harry said softly.

Draco was looking at the charmed forest outside his window, but his hands tightened on his chair. " _Empty_. Lots of time to think. Too much time to think."

He knew what Draco had thought about – that room.

Draco turned from the window to Harry, regarding him with a sincerity that he’d never seen in him before. 

"Potter, when you came here every morning...well, that changed everything. Can you understand now how much of a difference that made to me? I didn’t have to be stuck with my own crummy thoughts anymore. I could focus on your crummy thoughts."

Harry laughed in spite of his wretchedness.

"Although I wouldn’t mind never hearing another stupid story about Crookshanks, thank you very much. You have a disturbing weakness for cute, furry things."

"Like ferrets?" Harry asked, surprised at his own boldness.

It was Draco’s turn to laugh. "Yeah. Like ferrets. Weasels, too. I can see the attraction."

"You paid attention to everything I said to you," he said, feeling a fresh wave of embarrassment. "I talk too much." He was thinking about the Weasleys. And the Dursleys.

"But they were such interesting stories. You gave me a new outlook on some things I thought I knew all about."

Harry tried to remember everything he had confessed, but there was so much of it – he’d worry about that some other time. Just having this conversation with Draco was so abnormal that it was all he could do to maintain it. Draco was acting unlike anything he’d expected – almost like they were long-time friends. Even after all he’d been through, Draco seemed worried about making Harry feel better. And he _was_ feeling better – a little.

"So tell me, how did you manage to make yourself move on your own?" Harry asked. "I couldn’t do it at all."

"Ah, yes. Well, you know how you were able to move to take the teacup?"

"Yes, because Dumbledore was handing it to me. My body knew how to respond. But you initiated moving, Malfoy, you grabbed my hand."

"Right. Okay, promise you won’t laugh?"

"Yes."

"Well, I convinced myself your hand was a piece of toast. Then I could grab it. You were part of breakfast – Potter, stop it, you promised you wouldn’t laugh."

"I’m sorry."

"No, you’re not. You’re enjoying it."

"All right, I admit it. A piece of toast, though? How humbling."

"Worked, though, didn’t it?"

They both considered the notion of how that one ridiculous delusion had saved Draco’s life.

After a short silence, Harry said, "So who are you anyway and what have you done with Draco Malfoy?"

"What do you mean?" Draco regarded him curiously.

"The real Draco Malfoy hates my guts," he answered, wondering what the other boy would say to that. Would he agree – or deny it?

Draco looked at him cautiously as if debating the question himself. After a moment, his face relaxed in a smile, and he replied, "Does he? I don’t think so. Not really. Maybe he just wanted you to pay attention to him. They say bad attention is better than no attention at all – just ask any spoiled brat."

"You’ve changed." Harry had to say it. "Not just since the battle. Tonks told me about you."

The smile faded from Draco’s face. "I had to. Change or die. Change or be killed. One or the other. Someday I’ll buy you a Butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks and tell you all about it."

"But not today." 

"Not today," Draco agreed.

He still wasn’t finished. "But when I combed your hair...every day...."

Draco’s smile returned. "Let me guess...you’re sorry and you didn’t know?" 

"Something like that." 

"I thought so. Well, I appreciated it. Oh, listen to me, I sound so pompous. I loved it, Potter –how could I not love that? I sat here for weeks and weeks feeling absolutely nothing. _Empty_ , remember? And then to feel _that._ Well, you know what it feels like." Draco’s expression was uncomfortably evocative.

"Yeah, I know what it feels like." He felt the color rise in his face, and he had to look away.

"All I can say is it’s a good thing the staff uses wands only for physical therapy, or I might be duty-bound to marry the rehab Healer."

"Oh, bloody hell, I didn’t think about that," Harry said, shocked.

"Relax. You were the only one who touched me. Although I was concentrating on trying to get the Hogsmeade Women’s Choir to come for a visit."

"Malfoy, how can you joke about it?" he said, but he was laughing again.

"I’m trying to get you over this little hump, you git. Okay, let’s cut to the chase. It was good for me, and I hope it was good for you, and now we’ll forget all about it. If that’s what you want."

What was he saying? Isn’t that what Draco wanted? But he realized that in fact he didn’t want to forget it. His hadn’t been the ecstatic experience that Draco’s was, but it had been rewarding in its own way. He decided to ignore Draco’s suggestion and say nothing at all.

And Draco let the comment pass unanswered. "Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have any chocolate frogs on you? I’m craving chocolate. Actually, I’m craving anything. I’d even go for a lump of flour and water at this point."

"No, I didn’t bring anything to eat, but maybe we can track something down." 

"I can’t wait to taste again. Watch, I’ll probably gain a hundred pounds now," Draco said with a grimace. Harry discovered he didn’t mind the expression, now that it wasn’t directed at him.

"Well, I don’t suppose we have to stay here anymore."

Draco jumped up so quickly that he almost lost his balance, and Harry steadied him. "Potter, you just said the magic words. I’ve had more than enough of this bloody room. I need to move around – shake this spell off." An enormous stretch accompanied his words. "Where to?"

"Let’s go bother the Healer. She may have some chocolate."

"Good idea, Gryffindor. Won’t she be surprised to see me?"

And Harry thought that was the understatement of the morning.

********

Draco was anxious to leave St. Mungo’s, and it wasn’t happening soon enough to suit him. The impatient patient was languishing in a waiting room alone while Dumbledore lobbied for his release. Apparently it wasn’t enough to be cured and sent on one’s way – all morning he’d been trotted around to any number of Healers who agreed he seemed to be in one piece again, only to pass him on to the next person, to be fussed over yet again.

The only good thing was that they all wanted to give him chocolate.

He couldn’t settle down after his long weeks of inactivity. He bounced from chair to window to hallway and back, hungry to be free again, chafing at the delay. He missed having Potter to talk to. Dumbledore had sent him back to his hotel with a pointed suggestion that he prepare Ron for Draco’s arrival – he was to room with them for security, he realized with some concern. Potter had accepted the idea, but he knew Weasley would be another story. Draco’s chickens were coming home to roost, and a sorry, bedraggled flock it was.

Potter, he mused. How had their relationship shifted so quickly? Before the spell, Draco had harbored no friendly feelings for his schoolmate, although he had lost his animosity toward him during his time with the Order. He had developed instead a reluctant yet hidden respect for him. Under the spell, he couldn’t feel any emotion toward him; all he could do was observe, and silently question. Even when Potter's touch instigated an emotional maelstrom, he couldn't connect it back to its source, back to Potter. But it marked the beginning of change.

It was as though Potter had carefully laid a fire, log by log, day by day, visit by visit, that awaited only a spark. The breaking of the spell provided that spark, and it had become a conflagration. He remembered Harry’s interest and concern, and now Draco felt gratitude; he remembered Harry’s jokes and smiles, and now he felt pleasure; he remembered Harry’s voice through hours of stories and conversations, and now he felt favored. With a wand flick, all these latent emotions – these and others he couldn’t name – had flared up together at once, and the single question burned in Draco: why had Harry given him these undeserved gifts? He had no idea why Harry had bothered with him at all, after years of bad blood between them. He’d been wrong about Potter all this time, but he wasn’t going to keep being wrong. He was determined to find out – who was this boy who commanded such intense loyalty from those who really knew him?

**Chapter 4 - The End of the Struggle**

> É a chuva chovendo, é conversa ribeira,  
>  Das águas de março, é o fim da canseira. 
> 
> It's the rain raining, it's the river bank talking  
>  Of the waters of March, it's the end of the struggle.)

Ron was taking the news that Draco Malfoy was coming to be their hotel roommate with the bad grace than anyone who knew him could have predicted.

"Why us?" he wailed. "He’s a Slytherin. He should be with them, the slimy snake."

"No one knows which Slytherins are still against him because he fought Voldemort," Harry explained for the third time.

"All of them." Ron clutched a pillow and punctuated his words with soft _thwaps_ from his fist.

"Maybe. It isn’t safe for Malfoy to be with Slytherins; there’s not enough control here in London to keep an eye on him."

"Why us, though? Why not Hufflepuff?"

"Because we won’t kill him," Harry answered simply.

"We won’t?" Ron’s stare challenged him to deny it.

"No, Ron, we won’t. I promised Dumbledore we won’t."

"Well, I didn’t promise anything." _Thwap._

"Listen, Ron, he’s changed. I’ve seen him. Things’ll be different, you’ll see."

"This is your fault, Harry," Ron said darkly.

"Yeah, probably." He dodged the pillow that Ron flicked at him.

"You need a better target for those misplaced urges to go around saving things. Puppies, Harry. You need to rescue lost puppies. Something cute and adorable. Not Slytherins. Not _Malfoys_."

Ron was winding down, to his relief.

"Puppies chew up all your stuff, Ron."

"Well, Malfoy’s gonna chew _us_ up, Potter. And spit us out."

"No he’s not, Ron."

"He’s gonna treat us like house elves. He’ll leave his stuff all over our room and use our towels to polish his shoes and sneak our last chocolate frogs when we’re out."

"Maybe."

"Probably. And if I catch him using my toothbrush, he is _so_ out of here."

********

Harry had a last-minute meeting with Professor McGonagall when Draco moved in, and he had to leave Ron alone with him, to his great regret. He was seriously worried that he’d be picking up little pieces of one or both of them for days. 

He opened the door cautiously on his return, only to find Ron and Draco sitting calmly on the sofa watching television. Draco was nibbling on one of Ron’s chocolate frogs, but Ron didn’t seem to be protesting.

Ron looked up when Harry came in, but Draco kept that glazed stare of the electronically mesmerized.

"Hello, Ron, Draco. What are you watching?"

"Malfoy has never seen a telly before, Harry, can you believe that?"

"Well, Ron, you hadn’t either before we moved in here," he answered carefully. They were watching football; he hoped they were both cheering for the same team or there might be trouble.

"Care for a frog?" Ron offered. He tossed another one to Draco, too, who accepted with a quick thanks.

"Um, Ron, could I talk to you for a minute? In the hall?"

"Sure, mate."

After the door was closed behind them, Harry asked, "What’s going on?"

"We’ve come to an understanding, Malfoy and I."

"Well, I guessed that."

"He made a noble and proper apology for seven years worth of abuse. Event by event, practically. Took him over an hour. It was awesome to see him groveling, Harry, you would have loved it."

"I’ll bet _you_ did."

"Then we started talking about Quidditch. Did you know he’s a big Chudley Cannons fan, Harry? Who would have imagined?"

Harry struggled not to laugh. Malfoy _had_ been listening to all that sports trivia, more than Harry had supposed.

"And he’s going to buy himself a new broom, and he offered me his old one. His Nimbus 2001."

Bribery, Harry mused. Good move. Always works for me – well, bribery and lies.

"He’s stealing your chocolate frogs, Ron."

"No, I’m actually giving them to him."

"And your toothbrush?"

"Well, a man has his limits, you know. _Not_ my toothbrush," Ron replied with a grin.

"So he can stay?"

Ron looked at him more seriously. "You were right, Harry, he has changed. I guess I didn’t believe you. From the sound of things, a lot happened to him this year. Seems to me he had a loud wake-up call: ‘Where am I going and why am I in this handcart?’ So yes, he can stay."

Harry had underestimated Ron, who obviously had more insight into human nature than he ever gave him credit for. Probably it resulted from growing up in his large family, where strong characters rubbed up against each other daily.

But he didn’t underestimate Ron’s capacity to forgive -- even Malfoy.

Ron was leaning against the wall, and he slid down so that his eyes were level with Harry’s. "I’ve never been so glad to be a Weasley. I couldn’t tell you what I’d have done with my life if I had _his_ parents. I thought that ‘Money can’t buy happiness’ was just a saying. Money is about all Malfoy has left, and I think he’s miserable."

"He’s trying to start over, though. He’s got talent...he’s smart…ambitious…."

"…Loyal, thrifty, brave, clean, reverent…. What is this, a Malfoy love-fest?" Ron asked with a laugh.

"How about cute and adorable…with a certain puppy-like charm?" he shot back.

Ron gave him a pained look. "Are you trying to recruit me for the Harry Potter Rescue Society?"

"Special membership offer, today only, for one lucky Ron Weasley…."

Ron heaved an exaggerated sigh. "I cannot believe the things you make me do, Potter. So what’s the plan, then? We turn him into a Gryffindor? Give the Sorting Hat another shot at him? What?"

He felt a sudden warmth in response to Ron’s willing and generous spirit. What would Draco have become, he wondered, if he’d had a friend like this, someone who backed him up when he needed it?

"I think we just try to be his friend. Seems like he could use that right now."

An enthusiastic shout came from behind their closed door.

"Sounds like Man U scored," Ron said as he straightened up, gave him a crooked grin, and headed to the door. Harry had to hide his smile when Ron led the way back to the couch, softly barking and growling.

********

One morning, a week later, Harry suggested to his friends that they get together at Booth’s coffee shop before their afternoon class.

"A coffee shop?" Draco complained. "This is England, Harry. What’s wrong with a tea shop?"

"Well, they serve tea there, too." 

"Then why do they call it a coffee shop?" 

"Because it’s trendy, Draco."

Draco’s eyes narrowed. "Malfoys are never _trendy_ , Potter." He was actually smirking, Harry noticed, the way he used to. Back then, he had always wanted to mop the floor with that smirk. Now it just made him want to laugh.

"Coffee shops are what’s popular in London. Or is _popular_ not a Malfoy trait, either?" Harry teased. 

"If they serve tea, it’s a tea shop," he insisted. Harry suspected that Draco was objecting just on general principle; the only son of an ancient pureblood wizarding family was no doubt a strict traditionalist.

He gave up. "Yes, Malfoy, you idiot, it’s a tea shop. They just happen to serve a lot of coffee. It’s called Booth’s, it’s just down the street, so meet us there at 1:30." He turned to leave.

"Potter – um, thanks for asking me," Malfoy said, suddenly serious. "I mean, it’s not like everyone is scrambling over themselves to be friends with me right now. Just you. Well, and Weasley and Granger, too." Harry noticed that Draco no longer called them names; he hadn’t since leaving St. Mungo’s. Draco looked down, and then cautiously back up at Harry. "So why are you being nice to me?"

He thought for a moment. "I don't know." Any other answer would take the rest of the morning, and he had to get to class.

Malfoy’s expression shifted and he looked mistrustful. "Dumbledore didn’t put you up to it, did he?" Harry could see disappointment in his face.

"No, he never said anything. Well, except about sharing our room, but you know why he did that. This may come as a shock, Draco, but I think it’s because I actually like you. You’re fun to hang around with."

From his expression, Draco was clearly surprised by his reply. 

"I can’t have been much fun at St. Mungo’s." 

Harry was wondering when Draco would finally bring up his visits. Harry had given a lot of thought to what he would say, but had come up with nothing. Maybe there was nothing he could say that wouldn't embarrass him too much. Some things were better left unsaid.

"No, no fun at all."

Draco pursued it. "Why did you come?"

This was important, Harry realized suddenly. This deserved the truth. "Guilt," he answered. "Because of what happened to you. I thought it should have happened to me instead."

Draco opened his mouth and Harry knew what he was going to say, so he forged ahead. "I didn’t say it made sense. It’s what I felt. As you always remind me, I’m a Gryffindor, and Gryffindors can’t sit on their hands. I had to do something, so I came to see you. I’d do it again, too."

Draco was looking at him as though he understood him for the first time in their turbulent seven-year relationship. "I’m glad you came, Harry. And for everything since," he admitted, and Harry knew that it cost him a lot to say it. "I think I actually like you, too. And your friends – and if you tell them I said so, I will have to kill you."

Harry laughed. "Too late, Draco, I think they’ve already figured it out themselves."

********

Harry, Hermione, and Ron walked in to Booth’s coffee shop a few minutes late, and Harry wondered if Draco was already there. When he saw how crowded it was – he’d never been round on a Wednesday afternoon – he wondered if he’d made a mistake by suggesting they meet here. When he noticed Draco sitting at a table, center-stage, he was sure of it.

"So much for _blending in_ ," hissed Ron. "The git."

It occurred to Harry too late that he had never actually seen Draco in the Muggle world before. He was about as successful at blending in as a real dragon would have been. Clearly some things were just too exotic to make the jump from the wizarding world to this one. Unicorns. Goblins. Dementors. Malfoy.

Draco was clothed in an ensemble that, to Harry, screamed _rich pureblood wizard_. What it said to the rest of the coffee shop clientele Merlin only knew. His outfit was entirely cream colored, from his beautifully tailored, perfectly-fitted shirt and vest that laced artfully across his chest to his cream knee-high leather boots, and he was dressed in a style that was popular in England, oh, about three hundred years ago. His attire was consciously chosen to complement the highlights in his blond hair and was made from fabrics that Harry didn’t think existed in the Muggle world. He had a half-length cream wool cloak draped carelessly over the back of his chair. He’d apparently been there long enough to have ordered tea, not coffee, which he gracefully sipped from an elaborately crafted, cream-colored china cup detailed with a snake-shaped handle that Harry was positive didn’t come from Booth’s. Harry didn’t want to think about how many customers might have noticed Draco transform it from the paper cup it had once been. In his other hand, Draco held an ornate quill that he was using to inscribe the scroll laid before him. 

Draco was deliberately ignoring the attention he generated, but Harry suspected he was intensely aware of it. Knowing him, he had probably cultivated it. The patrons in the shop had unconsciously turned themselves toward him, and Harry thought that they looked like petals arrayed in a flower, and the center was Draco. And when Draco looked up and saw them in the doorway and sent his dazzling smile their way, he saw the collective crowd turn their heads to see what had attracted him.

"You can take the boy out of Slytherin, but you can’t take Slytherin out of the boy," Hermione muttered.

"He looks like one of the bloody royal family," Ron replied. "The one they keep locked up."

To make matters worse, Linda was there even though Harry was sure she’d told him she didn’t work on Wednesdays. He smiled nervously at her as she approached, while Hermione and Ron threaded their way through the crowd to Draco. 

"What are you doing here?" he asked without thinking.

"I work here," she answered with a grin. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_ , he thought too late. "How about you? I didn’t think you went about in the daylight."

"Just meeting a friend." 

"Over there," she jerked her head in Draco’s direction. He really didn’t want to know how she’d made the connection.

"He’s a model," he lied.

"Did I ask?" she said lightly, and he could see she thought the situation was funny. Harry wished he thought so too. "Not from around here, is he?"

"What do you mean?" he asked cautiously, thinking, _accent_? _Dress_? _Aristocratic attitude_? _Cream-colored knee-high leather boots_?

"Well, he couldn’t figure out the money. It’s a dead giveaway."

"Oh, yeah." A beat. "He’s used to servants handling all that for him. He’s very rich." Not bad, he thought; it’s even true. If by _servants_ you meant _house elves_.

"Ooh, good-looking and rich, too? You must introduce us."

"He’s too young for you," Harry told her, and she laughed.

"You’re not keeping him for yourself, are you?" 

Okay, Harry thought, this conversation is getting too strange. "I better get over there before they send a search party." He scurried after his friends.

There were no other chairs at the table and Hermione and Ron were still standing. For a brief second, he thought that Draco was reaching for his wand to conjure some seats.

"Don’t even think about it," he said in a low growl. 

"What?" asked Draco with false innocence. Harry and Hermione borrowed three chairs from other tables. Harry was entertained by the fact that Ron didn’t seem to know how to solve the lack of chairs without magic, either.

Linda had come over to take their order. Harry knew it would have been unspeakably rude not to introduce them, even though it had crossed his mind to do just that. Crossed and recrossed.

"Linda, these are my classmates, Hermione, Ron, and...Draco." He lowered his voice and tried to mumble the final name. To no avail.

"Draco _Malfoy_?" she asked, looking at Draco with greater interest, something Harry hadn’t thought possible.

Draco looked at her curiously. "Have we met?" he asked politely.

"No, James has mentioned you." Harry shut his eyes.

"James?" Draco repeated.

"Most people call me Harry," he said to no one in particular. "James is my middle name." Okay, that was true. If by _most people_ you meant _everyone_. "I’ll just have my usual, please." He was so flustered he didn’t even hear the others order.

"I’ve always wanted to walk into a tea shop and order the usual," Draco said after Linda left. Harry was stunned that Draco didn’t want to delve into why Harry had talked about him with a Muggle waitress who called him James. Stunned and eternally grateful.

Hermione wrinkled her face at Draco. "This is a coffee shop, if you hadn’t noticed."

Draco didn’t answer, but he deliberately raised his tea cup and toasted her provocatively.

The rest of the conversation carried on with little help from Harry. Things still felt awkward, but Harry could tell that both Ron and Hermione were doing their best to ease his discomfort, and Draco was actually working hard to be entertaining. He was, in fact, very good at it. For Harry’s part, he was feeling guilty for breaking his promise to himself about not lying. It was carved into his damned hand, Harry thought. I will not tell lies. So maybe he hadn’t been lying when Umbridge made him put it there, but that didn’t mean he didn’t deserve it.

Maybe he could punish himself the way Dobby did. A couple of crushed hands in a drawer or a lamp smashed into his skull a few times might make an impression on him. Bad Harry. _Wham_!

Ron had apparently mentioned something to Malfoy about his appearance, and Malfoy had contrived to look hurt.

"I _am_ blending in," he protested. By _blending in_ , Harry thought, Draco meant _leaving my eagle owl back in the room_.

"No, you’re not," Ron argued. "Look at us, Malfoy. This is blending in."

"No, Weasley, that is disgracing yourself. No one told me I had to lower my standards quite that far." 

It took Ron a moment to detect the lack of bite in Draco’s comment and to realize that the Slytherin was harmlessly jerking his chain. Hermione laughed, and Ron joined in. Draco just smiled innocently.

"We’re going to be late for class," Hermione finally noticed.

"Oh, yes, Care of Tiny Magical Creatures," Draco said, to Ron’s evident amusement. The class met in a former dry cleaners, and there wasn’t much room. 

They gathered their things and stood up. Draco rescued his cloak from his chair and swept it dramatically over his shoulders, although Harry conceded that there was probably no way to put on a cloak that wasn’t at least a little dramatic. It was just the nature of cloak-wearing. Ron simply rolled his eyes. Like a good regular, Harry picked up their cups and carried them to a dustbin. He wasn’t sure what to do with Draco’s cup. Now that all eyes were on them again because of Draco’s flamboyance, he couldn’t throw it away and he didn’t dare pocket it. He slipped over to the front counter and set it there. Linda had noticed him, though, and reached to pick it up with a quizzical look. Harry’s luck being was it was, however, the cup took it upon itself at that instant to transform back to its original paper form. 

Linda’s quizzical look was now indescribable. Harry’s hand dove for the offending cup, snatched it up, and tossed it into the dustbin at the same time he muttered a hasty, "See you later." He dashed out the door without looking back.

He’d send Tonks over later to repair the damage.

"Nice recovery, _James_ ," Draco whispered as they hustled down the street. Harry didn’t answer.

********

Harry went back to Booth’s that evening to make sure Tonks had taken care of the troublesome memory about the cup. The rest of the mess Harry had to fix himself.

"You aren’t the first author to use real names in a story, James... _Harry,_ " Linda corrected. 

"Either one." 

"I think I’ll stick with James, then." Harry nodded.

"As long as your friends are okay with it, there’s no harm," she reassured him. Harry thankfully realized that she thought he’d only used their names. Of course, in retrospect he saw that the story was so unbelievable to a Muggle that she couldn’t imagine anything farther than that. 

"No, they don’t mind."

"It’s just that now I’ll be searching the crowds of London for Dumbledore and Snape." 

"There is no Snape," he said, grimly adding to himself, _not anymore_.

"And the real Draco Malfoy has such a quirky personality, I can see why you’d want to put him in a fantasy."

"He loves to be the center of attention. Could you tell?"

Linda chuckled at the reminder of Draco holding court earlier that day. "Oh, yes, I definitely could tell. An unlikely hero for your story, I’d have guessed, but you know him better than I do. So in the end, is he rescued from St. Mungo’s?"

Harry smiled. "Well, it turns out we were both right. Potter saves him – but Dumbledore does most of the work. Draco is fine."

"Oh, yes, Draco is _fine_ , all right," she said silkily. Harry blushed; he hadn’t caught the double meaning until too late. "So tell me, is he really rich or were you making that up to impress me?"

He laughed. "Yes, he’s really rich. Piles of it, actually. How else could he afford to look like that?"

"You’re right. Those leather boots alone would cost me a week’s salary. His parents are pretty generous with his allowance."

"Oh, no, actually, it’s all his own money. He’s like me, now. His parents are…." Belatedly, he realized what he was admitting.

"Are what, James?" In a flash, Linda’s expression had changed from teasing to solemn.

Harry swallowed. "Gone. His parents are gone."

What on earth had gotten into him? he thought, frustrated with himself. Why was he bringing that up? He didn’t want the pitying look that Linda gave him now – he didn’t want her to know about his life as Harry Potter. For just once in his life, he wanted to be normal. He wanted to be James.

Linda rested her hand, still warm from handling coffee, on Harry’s wrist, and looked at him with a new awareness. "So you watch out for each other?"

The comment startled him, made him think. "Well, I wouldn’t say…" he began, but suddenly realized something important. "Yes. Yes, we do."

"Good. Maybe that can be the subject of your next story."

That reminded him of the other reason he had come to see Linda. He swung his book bag onto the table and reached in, pulling out a sheaf of papers. "I brought you something," he said, and handed it to her with a flourish.

"Oh, James, you finished your story."

"Yes." One final lie. But he couldn’t tell her the truth – one part, the story of Snape’s death, remained unwritten. Draco’s part. Harry had asked him to recount enough about it so that he could finish his chapter, and Draco had agreed. But so far he hadn’t been able to talk about it. Harry’s one attempt to prod him was kindly but firmly rebuffed with the words, "Not yet. Soon." 

Harry would never show that last part to Linda. He suspected that most of what Draco would describe could never be written down at all.

"I have something else, too," he added, tugging out a badly-wrapped package that he shyly presented to her. Linda made quick work of the wrapping and drew out the book inside.

" _Hogwarts, A History_ ," she read.

"I told you my story was a sequel. That’s the original fantasy," he said. "To thank you for all your help."

"Thank you, James," she said, and to Harry’s surprise, she gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "I enjoyed your story – you have real talent. Have you ever thought of becoming a writer?" 

"And ruin our school’s reputation for unemployable graduates?" Harry chided, still blushing from her kiss.

"Oh, no," she laughed. "If you’re like most writers, the reputation will be safe. So what _are_ you going to be when you grow up?"

"Well, I was thinking either an Auror or a Quidditch player," Harry replied with deliberate recklessness, knowing that Linda would have no idea what he was talking about. "Or better yet, I can come and work here. Would you hire me?"

She smiled wickedly. "Only if you promise me that the delectable Draco Malfoy drops in often to visit you." 

********

Saturday morning dawned dreary and grey. By nine o’clock, Ron had already left to meet Hermione in the makeshift Hogwarts library, formerly a Bengali restaurant. Harry was sure that the books would smell like curry for the next hundred years. 

Harry and Draco dawdled in the hotel room with the aimlessness of those with no real plans for the day. Harry grabbed a t-shirt that said, "Wizards do it in Latin," that Tonks had found in a Muggle shop and insisted he have. He wouldn’t normally have worn it, but it was his last clean shirt and it was Saturday. Draco had already dressed and was attired as conservatively as a bank president, if by _bank_ you meant _Gringotts_.

"Are you going out?" Harry asked him.

Draco looked surprised. "No, I thought I’d hang around here this morning. Why?"

"You’re so dressed up." 

"It’s my last clean outfit," Draco admitted.

Harry finally broached the subject they’d both been avoiding. "Do you think you’re ready to work on the Hogwarts history chapter with me?" 

"What – now, do you mean?"

"Well, now or immediately, whichever you’d prefer," Harry said lightly. "If you’re not busy," he added, to give Draco a chance to back out.

Draco seemed to be considering doing just that, but then he replied, "No, James, I think it’s time we got on with it."

Harry had confessed why Linda called him James, and now Draco used that name sometimes when no one else could hear him. Harry wasn’t sure why. 

Now that they had agreed to work on the history together, however, he wasn’t certain how to start. Draco appeared to be no surer. 

Draco spoke up. "So, Gryffindor, tell me what to do here."

Harry pulled a chair near the one where Draco sat. "Maybe if you just describe to me what happened from the time you met up with Professor Snape until...well, until I walked in, I guess. I’ll sit here and listen."

"You aren’t going to take notes?"

"No notes." 

"How will you remember everything? I don’t want you misquoting me. Not for posterity."

He knew with certainty that he wasn’t likely to forget anything that Draco was about to tell him, but he didn’t say that. "No notes," he repeated.

Draco began. As he talked, he fidgeted with a ball-point pen he’d snagged from the desk, courtesy of their hotel, disassembling and reassembling it with surgical precision.

"I was in our common room, studying. Pretending to study," he corrected. "Crabbe and Goyle were there, and Zabini, I think. All of a sudden, Professor Snape charged in. He ignored everyone else and ordered me to come with him." Draco’s usually melodic voice was intense but quiet. Harry had to lean far forward to hear his words, so that they were nearly touching. As Draco described that day’s events – Snape urging him through the halls, desperate for their escape – he kept his eyes on the pen, never glancing at Harry. Sometimes he spoke in sentences, but more often it was just phrases or single words. _Racing through the dungeons…everyone hiding …blocking our path…Voldemort._

The pen was back together again, and Malfoy began to dissect it once more, never meeting Harry’s eyes. 

"He was…horrible…."

The long pause made him wonder whether the story would end here. At last Draco whispered, "You’ve seen him. Fill in this part for me, Harry."

"Consider it filled," he said quietly.

Draco took a deep breath and began again in his quiet monotone. "Professor Snape pushed me into a classroom. He shut the door…charmed it secure. He shouldn’t have bothered. Snape’s wand was out, doing the spell on me…then...."

Draco couldn’t continue. He looked up at Harry with regret for his inability to speak.

"Take as much time as you need, Draco," Harry told him gently. "Can I get you some chocolate? Or tea?"

Draco shook his head, and they sat in silence for a while. Harry remembered exactly what it felt like to try to describe to an audience the horrible things Voldemort did. He had far too much experience sitting where Draco now sat. Dumbledore had always known what to say to him to help him through it, and Harry had always felt better afterward. Now he longed to encourage Draco, but he was no Dumbledore, and he couldn’t find the words.

Finally, Draco stood up and crossed the room to his trunk, searching there for something that he soon retrieved. When he returned, he wordlessly handed the object to Harry and sat down.

It was a comb.

Now it was Harry’s turn to be struck silent.

"It won’t be the same, you know," he finally said.

"You say that like it’s a bad thing," Draco replied, with a brief smile.

Harry stood up and moved behind Draco’s chair. Slowly and carefully, he began to draw the comb through Draco’s hair as he had done so many times in the room in St. Mungo’s. He wanted to make his actions speak the reassurance that his tongue could not. He worked in silence for a long time until Draco found enough strength to continue his narrative. He listened as Draco described the horrors that Voldemort had visited on Snape as Draco watched, paralyzed but comprehending. Draco spilled it all out as though once he’d started he didn’t dare stop, and all the while, Harry stroked the comb gently through his hair and didn’t dare stop either.

Finally Draco’s story came to an end. Harry, however, continued his patient ministrations, and Draco made no move to stop him. At last he spoke.

"Professor Snape would be proud of you, Draco. His story needs to be remembered. You honored him by telling it."

"Thank you," Draco answered in a shaky voice. For a second, he thought that Draco was going to start crying, but he didn’t. Maybe he should, Harry reflected; people told him it’s healthy to cry. But he didn’t cry. Maybe he never cried. Harry used to be that way, too.

As he combed, he again smelled the keen odor of Draco’s hair that he remembered so clearly. As he had done once before, he felt compelled to lean down and pillow his cheek in the silky crown of Draco’s delicate blond hair, and one of his tears fell there and darkened a silver strand. But it was okay this time, because Draco could toss him out the window if he wanted, and it was certainly within his rights and probably very likely that he would do just that. But Draco surprisingly didn’t toss him out the window at all; instead, he reached his hand up to his own shoulder and enclosed Harry’s hand resting there. And in that quiet moment, as he breathed in the exotic fragrance that was Draco Malfoy, he recognized the aroma of cloves and citrus and March rain and atonement and forgiveness.

> _São as águas de março, fechando o verão  
>  É a promessa de vida, no teu coração_
> 
> (They are the waters of March closing the summer,  
>  It's the promise of life, in your heart.)

**Epilogue - A Little Alone**

> _É pau, é pedra, é o fim do caminho,  
>  É um resto de toco, é um pouco sozinho._
> 
> _(It's stick, it's stone, it's the end of the road,  
>  It's the rest of a stump, it's a little alone._  
> 

Draco was still trembling after reliving his disturbing story, but the slow and unfaltering rhythm of Harry's hands drawing the comb through his hair steadied him. The trauma of Snape's death was far too fresh for him -- comprehension hadn't hit him until Snape's spell vanished, letting him understand the horror and pain of that death. Under the spell, he only knew the facts; after that, he felt its utter loss.

There was more than one kind of _empty_ , Draco discovered.

There was the emotionless emptiness of that void where he had been hidden away, protected by Snape from Voldemort's power. 

There was the black emptiness in his soul -- the space left behind when everything Draco treasured was ripped away, leaving him grieving and anguished at its loss. Snape's death was just one horror of the past year. It had begun last summer at Malfoy Manor, where he'd had a short, sharp lesson on the evil that Voldemort embraced and learned its true cost. Where he decided to reject it even if that rejection should cost him his life. 

There was the lonely emptiness of this school year, after he withdrew from everyone he thought he knew, and allowed himself to trust in Dumbledore and the Order. At times he had longed to simply let go, to let the Dark take him after all, just to fill the emptiness once more before it destroyed him.

Rain had begun in earnest, and he heard the sharp staccato of drops as a gust of wind blew against the window. He watched the raindrops slide slowly down the glass like tears.

"Who are you and what have you done with Draco Malfoy?" Harry had asked him in jest. He hadn't answered then -- he still couldn't answer -- because he didn't know anymore. The Draco Malfoy that Harry remembered turned out to be as ephemeral as an imaginary childhood playmate. Draco had finally grown up and left that boy behind. He looked back with contempt on a life that had been so petty, so useless, so small, that he could have balled it up into something the size of a Snitch and let it fly weightlessly away. That boy had never seen the things he'd seen or done the things he'd done. That boy had never felt the emptiness he'd felt.

But he suspected that Harry Potter knew those things.

Draco cringed inside as he recalled the callous way he'd treated Harry, as though it was his god-given right to demean him. Everything he wanted to become was aimed at repairing the damage he had thoughtlessly – no, _deliberately_ – caused. He used to think it was all a game. He knew now that it wasn't a game, and never had been.

He turned his mind from the past year and toward the boy standing so near him. For several weeks now, he had closely studied the Gryffindor, intent on learning what he had overlooked. The more he observed Harry, the more drawn in he was. Somehow, Harry had found a way to transcend the horrors of fighting the Dark, and Draco needed to learn where that path lay.

He heard Harry praising his meager efforts, using words like "proud" and "honor". His throat tightened dangerously, but he fought to hold on to himself. He focused instead on the soft bite of teeth from the comb until he regained some of his composure. It puzzled him that Harry continued to comb his hair, but he didn't want him to stop. It reminded him of their time together at St. Mungo's: just the two of them, silently connected like this. It reminded him of hours spent discovering the boy he had come to admire – and more. A boy who was loyal and sympathetic and concerned, even for his enemy. A boy who was so different from his expectations that Draco sometimes called him ‘James'. 

It reminded him of what Harry said about why he came to St. Mungo's. _"What happened to you. I thought it should have happened to me, instead."_

If he were to design the best way to court someone, Draco reflected, he would follow the steps that Harry had taken with him. Be undiscouraged. Be patient. Be honest. Be kind and compassionate. Be tender. Bare your innermost self without fear of ridicule.

Ironically, Harry wasn't even conscious of what he had done. But Draco was.

The intense emotion he felt as Harry touched him now wasn't as overwhelming as what he'd experienced under Snape's spell – but it was close. Maybe even better, because he was fully aware of it. Still, Draco wanted something more, and intended to do – nothing. He didn't dare.

The rain had set up a rhythm of soft pulses on the sill outside that sounded like a heartbeat. He allowed the rhythm of Harry's hands and nature's raindrops to relax him.

What Harry did next was entirely unanticipated. Draco felt the other boy's cheek stroke against his hair and nestle there, as though Harry needed to be intimately nearer to him than he already was. Warm breath ruffled his hair. As he watched in the room's mirror, he saw Harry's eyes close just as an errant tear escaped his lids. Draco could feel its wetness where it fell. 

Were Harry’s tears for Professor Snape? Or for someone else?

Abruptly he remembered a morning at St. Mungo's when Harry had pulled close like this, a brief moment that he had almost missed and hadn't understood. But Harry didn't pull away now.

Draco suddenly decided that doing nothing wasn't such a good plan after all, because as inexplicable as it was, Harry seemed to be wordlessly conveying something. Did they both have the same idea of what that something was? He could imagine only one way to find out for certain.

He stretched his hand to capture Harry's where it rested on his shoulder, and Harry didn't back away. Draco proceeded as slowly as if he were approaching a Hippogriff, waiting for confirmation of each gesture, afraid to spook him. Encouraged, he pulled Harry's hand to his own cheek, held it there for a moment, then stroked it softly across his skin. He heard and felt Harry sigh softly into his hair and whisper, "Draco."

The sound of his name spoken like a prayer from Harry's lips released him from his indecision. In one graceful movement, like a dancer, Draco stood up, turning and drawing Harry to face him. For a long time they stood together like that, face to face, eyes focused on one another, hands still joined, breath speeding up because of their nearness. Lifting his hand, he smoothed away the damp trace on the other boy's cheek.

He didn't yet know the last thing he was planning to do, but he did know the next. With his free hand, he nudged the wand from his pocket and drew it out. " _Colloportus_ ," he commanded, and a distinct click issued simultaneously from both doors.

Harry startled at the sound and asked, "What are you doing?"

Draco let the silence answer for him, certain that Harry had identified the sound and by now his intention.

"Harry...." But he had no desire to continue that thought – not with words, anyway. Grabbing what courage he could and ignoring the doubts flooding him, he closed the remaining space between them and tentatively brushed his lips gently against Harry's. Seeking...just seeking...but what he would find, he didn't know.

The response was instant. At first, Harry kissed back with a mirroring gentleness, then with more urgency, which Draco echoed. Sliding his hand across Harry's shoulder, lightly and slowly, his fingertips caressed his neck and trailed into his dark hair. Their kiss intensified until they were both gasping for air, and they had to reluctantly separate. Harry's glasses had been pushed askew, and Draco removed them gently. He used his wand, still in hand, to send them safely to the desk, then tucked it back into his pocket. He had a feeling he was going to want both hands free.

He had never seen Harry's eyes without glasses, and he was instantly enveloped in their opulent greenness. To his astonishment, he saw desire and purpose in those eyes, and at the same time, he felt Harry's hands longingly stroke his face. He could no longer bear their separation and again dove in to the sweet mystery that was Harry's mouth. Heat and intensity rose between them like flames, and Draco felt as though he was a phoenix burning away everything he was, changing and being reborn in all that fire into something new and vital and wonderful. Harry's lips parted at the urging of his tongue, and they were tasting and licking at each other as if they were starving.

_I'm kissing Harry Potter. And he's kissing me._

Breathless once more, whether from the activity or his racing thoughts, he pulled away and opened his eyes. Harry was looking at him as if seeing him – really seeing _into_ him – for the first time. The intensity of his gaze pinned Draco in his arms.

"Wow," Harry finally said, a look of wonder on his face. "I mean...Draco...just... _wow_."

Harry looked unnerved, although he could tell it was in a good way. When Harry was unnerved, he seemed to like to talk.

"I wasn't expecting...I mean, I didn't think...well, how did you know?"

"I didn't know. I do now," he answered simply and nuzzled against Harry's neck, tasting the warm salty flavor of sweat and heat.

"So do I. Wow. I've never been kissed like that before."

He thought he'd better do something to stop Harry from talking – at the rate he was going he might start up a story about Crookshanks. He knew just what to do.

"Shhh," he murmured and caught Harry's lower lip delicately between his teeth, nibbling and sucking, before reclaiming his mouth in another long drowning kiss. After Harry became quiet, Draco released him to brush little kisses across Harry's brow and cheek and jaw, while Harry buried his fingers in Draco's hair and stroked and kissed and touched.

"Draco, your hair is so soft...so soft," Harry whispered. "God, I've wanted to touch you like this for so long. I feel like I'm drunk."

So do I, he thought. _And I never want it to stop._

Momentum had carried them to a resting place, and they stood, clinging together and breathing hard. He observed Harry's flushed, lucent skin and the aroused gleam in his eyes, and assumed he looked the same. He noticed a look of curiosity grow in Harry's eyes, so he asked, "What are you thinking?"

"I guess I never imagined you fancied boys, Draco. Hell, I never knew _I_ fancied boys."

"Not _boys_ , Harry. Just you. And so far, only you."

Harry smiled but seemed unconvinced. "Can't be. I had imagined you as experienced, somehow."

Draco laughed joylessly. "No, I'm a victim of my own reputation. Anyone I fancied thought they wouldn't meet my imagined high standards. Which isn't true. Or they thought I was a total bastard. Which probably _is_ true."

" _Was_ true," Harry corrected.

"But you, Potter...they must be all over you to get a piece of the Boy Who Lived. Surely you have your pick?"

"No, same story. They're happier with their fantasies – the real thing scares them, I think. So no, not so much."

"And what about James?" he asked, a sly smile on his lips.

"James doesn't get any, either," Harry said with exaggerated regret. "So maybe it is me, not just the fame."

"I'll take either one of you, Harry James Potter. They don't know what they're missing."

"No, they don't. You're the sexiest total bastard I've ever kissed." To his delight, Harry let his mouth and tongue reaffirm that statement, but _kiss_ was far too simple a word for it.

Draco smiled blithely, then drew Harry's hand to his own and pulled it to his lips, caressing it softly. "This is my favorite part of you, I think."

"My hands?" Harry asked.

"Mmhmm," he murmured into Harry's calloused palm, running his tongue along the index finger and grasping the tip with a playful nip. "There's just something so...so Harry about them."

Harry looked amused. "What does _that_ mean?"

"They just remind me of you. Gryffindor hands. Always up to something. Did you ever notice that I used to stare at your hands when you made potions in Snape's class?" He turned Harry's hand over and nuzzled the skin gently, punctuating his efforts with small noises. " _Toast_. Mmmmm."

"Do you want to know my favorite part of you?" 

"I can guess," Draco answered without looking up from licking Harry's hand and nibbling and sucking at his fingers.

"Can you?"

"My hair," he answered, with a seductive toss of his head.

Harry pulled his captured hand toward himself, the movement drawing Draco closer, and immersed his face in the satiny blondness, gathering and caressing it with his free hand. "No," he said softly in Draco's ear. "Almost...but no."

He turned his head and looked at Harry, surprised. "No? What then?"

Without a word, Harry raised the hand that was entwined with his own. He slid Draco's sleeve back so that his arm was bare. The pale skin reflected, pure and unblemished, in the weak light of the dreary day that spilled in from the window. Harry leaned forward and pressed a kiss into the unmarked whiteness of Draco's skin at the precise spot where Voldemort branded his Death Eaters.

He couldn't have been more shocked. "Oh my god, Harry," he whispered. His precarious hold on his composure faltered as the meaning behind Harry's action took hold.

"It matters," Harry said firmly. The intensity of those two words echoed in Draco, and he felt the emptiness in him recede. "It mattered so much to Snape that he died to protect you. It matters that much to me."

He felt something inside himself let go. Hot tears welled up in his eyes, something he hadn't experienced since he was a child. Not at his parents' trial. Not even for Snape's death. He opened his mouth to say something, but he knew no words to express the sudden rush of anguish and desire storming through him, nor could he have uttered them had he found them. 

Harry looked at him with affection and wiped at the tears with his fingers. Draco lowered his head onto Harry's shoulder, feeling his arms encircle him, and lingered in the wordless comfort the other boy offered. They quietly embraced, intimately connected, until he was calmed.

All of a sudden, Harry gave a stifled laugh.

"What?" he looked up to ask.

"Nothing, really. I was just remembering the last time I kissed someone – she cried, too. I was hoping it wasn't something about me."

He knew that Harry was trying to make him feel less awkward, and he deeply appreciated it. 

"There _is_ something about you, Harry," he said with a tiny smile. "Something exceptional."

Harry raised his hand to push back a lock of hair and gave him a weak grin. "Well, people seem to notice this scar I have...."

"No," Draco replied firmly. "Not that. You're special even without that." He wondered if he dare go on in this direction, because soon he might say something he might regret. But the look on Harry's face allowed him to press on.

"I can't believe we wasted so much energy being angry at each other all these years – what a waste. Maybe you don't want to hear this. Not from me." He made himself look at Harry just so he could see the reaction in his eyes. " I don't know how we got from there to here, Harry. Never in my lifetime did I expect this."

Harry replied with a gentle laugh. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

They were back to wordless gazing, their arms looped around each other's waist. Draco watched emotions play across Harry's face, although he couldn't identify all of them. But he could guess.

Harry spoke softly, "So what happens next?"

He thought over his answer. He certainly hadn't considered it before now. He tested the idea of them together like this, as though he'd created a new potion and was uncertain of its effects. Would it be wonderful or terrible? Would it blow up in their faces?

"No one cares what I do anymore, Harry. My parents are out of my life, the other Slytherins don't want anything to do with me as it is, and we're leaving Hogwarts in a few months. For you, though...it's different. Dangerous."

"I don't care what people say about me," Harry was quick to answer.

Gryffindor bravery, he thought, and tried to suppress a wry smile. Maybe Harry didn't care what people said, but that didn't mean he wouldn't have to deal with it in a big way if this got out. Draco could think of a dozen major objections – Harry gay?...Harry with Lucius Malfoy's son?...Harry with a spy, who was almost a Death Eater himself?... he's not even eighteen yet, is he?.. Is he under some spell?.... And that was only from the wizard press, who would be like sharks sensing blood in the water. Harry's friends would flat-out kill them both. 

So with Slytherin practicality, he replied, "Not people, maybe, but what about your friends? Ron and Hermione?"

Draco could see Harry's concern grow in his eyes as the idea sank in.

" _Our_ friends, Draco. I don't know."

Draco allowed the corners of his mouth to lift. "I don't either. But I do know this – it feels good to be here with you. I want this, Harry. It's selfish, I know, but I want _you._ "

He could see that his confession surprised Harry.

"I want it, too, Draco." 

He thought that statement deserved a special reward, so he gently kissed him.

"Harry, let’s just keep this under wraps for now. If Ron knew, he'd never close his eyes again at night for fear of what we might be up to. We've got to allow the git some sleep."

And even though that meant lying and sneaking and pretending, Draco realized, being with Harry – being in love with Harry – was worth every minute of it.

Later, they were couched together, and Harry had Draco's hair spread out between his hands, fondling and stroking it. Draco gave a soft laugh, and it was Harry's turn to ask, "What?"

"I was thinking about Professor Snape," he admitted. "If he had known that his spell would bring us together like this, he would have left me to Voldemort."

"No, Draco, I wouldn't say that."

"You can't think he'd approve?" he asked incredulously.

Harry fondled Draco's arm absentmindedly. "Not exactly. He always did want good things for you, though."

"Yes, I think he did." He smiled, remembering the professor's favor and how much it used to irritate Harry.

Harry leaned closer and murmured into his ear, "Well, I intend to be a good thing for you, Draco Malfoy. A _very_ good thing."

Draco shivered with the anticipation of what that might be like. "Mmmm, Harry ... _James_... I think you already are."

Fin

**Author's Note:**

> The lyrics and title of this story are from the Brazilian bossa nova song, Águas de Março (The Waters of March), by Antonio Carlos Jobim. In 2001, more than 200 Brazilian journalists, musicians and cultural icons were asked "What is the all time best Brazilian song?" Jobim’s "Águas de Março", from 1972, was their top choice.
> 
> The melody is light, uptempo, and jazzy and probably not really suited to this story. I liked the lyrics, though, and there are many verses to choose from. They describe life in numerous little details. The complete song can be found here. There are literal translations and more poetic English interpretations that have better rhyme . I picked whatever fit the story. An aside: seasons are reversed in the southern hemisphere, so the waters of March really do close the summer there. I also picked this song because I happened to listen to it about a half-million times while writing this story. I don’t know any Portuguese except coração, which means heart, and seems to be a required element in every bossa nova song.
> 
> The animus occultus spell: Animus means mind and occultus means to hide. I know as much Latin as Portuguese, so I looked it up online. Animus claro means to brighten the mind (getting Draco prepared), and animus aperio means to reveal the mind. Corpus et animus denio contraho means “body and mind again united.” Tractus parumpter quater means “length of time for a moment of 4." I think. If it means “wrap up 4 flobberworms to go”, someone tell me.
> 
> Many, many thanks to Isis, my beta and fellow Coloradan (although one of us lives on the wrong side of the Divide), who worked so hard to help me with dialogue and language, laughed in all the right places, and kept chair wrestling out of the story.


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